


Rain, Rain Go Away

by Fullmetalcarer



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Charles, Calm Down Erik, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Charles in a Wheelchair, Charles is a Professor, Erik Being Cocky, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, campus AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fullmetalcarer/pseuds/Fullmetalcarer
Summary: Charles and Erik are determined to misunderstand each other.  Emma finds them amusing.  Moira finds them annoying.  Hank finds them embarrassing.  Raven doesn't know what to think.  Some fluff, some angst, some sex.





	1. In which they meet

"Bollocking shit!"

Charles gazed out across the dark, rainswept campus. It had been a lovely Spring morning when he had set out for work; warm, bright and breezy. He'd had a meeting in the main admin block first thing, so he'd parked there. After his meeting with Emma - who was not one of his favourite people but who it was wise to stay on the right side of - Charles had taken one look at the blue sky, the sunshine and the birch trees swaying gently in the wind and decided to leave the car where it was.

As he'd wheeled across to the science park, way over on the other side of campus, he'd enjoyed the feel of the sunshine and the breeze on his skin. It still felt strange to feel the weather on his bald head.

When Raven had first seen his shaved skull she'd shrieked with laughter and told him "you've always been an old man Charles, but now you really look like one". This had led to a sibling row which started out jokingly, escalated rapidly and ended bitterly, with both of them saying things they shouldn't have. As per usual Raven had accused him of being "overprotective, smothering and stifling" as well as "arrogant, patronising and hypocritical". Charles had responded with, amongst other things, "It's pretty ironic for someone who constantly spouts "mutant and proud" to accuse me of being hypocritical when you haven't let me read your mind since you were twelve". After that things had gone downhill fast and ended with Raven storming out in angry tears and Charles having to severely rein in his telepathy lest he give the entire block a raging headache.

Charles had tried to put the row out of his mind as he'd let himself into the lab and greeted Hank and Moira. The data analysis they'd got stuck into banished everything else from his thoughts. Hank and Moira had done some great work and Charles couldn't help feeling they were on the verge of a breakthrough, a very minor one in the vast field of genetic research, but a breakthrough nonetheless. However, there was still a hell of a lot of work to do before they were anywhere near publishing and never enough time to do it. Moira had left first, at about seven, saying "unlike the two of you, I have a life". Hank and Charles had ordered take-out and kept going until Charles had noticed the litany of "late, late, I'm going to be so late, she'll kill me, it'll all be over before it's begun, late, late, late" that Hank was projecting.

"Hank, should you be somewhere else? On a date perhaps?"

"What? Oh no, no, no, it's not even a real date, we're just friends, I'm sure she'll understand, this is important work, it really doesn't matter . . ."

Charles had interrupted him with a smile. "Based on the way you're projecting, it certainly does matter. Get out of here my friend and enjoy your not-date."

There had been a burst of guilt from Hank. It had felt strangely complicated, not just about their work but somehow more personally related to Charles. He'd been curious but, unlike some people (Emma Frost), he was scrupulous about using his telepathy without permission. Picking up Hank's surface emotions and thoughts was one thing, diving into his mind out of sheer nosiness was quite another. An omega level telepath like Charles couldn't help the doing the former (unless he shielded so hard it gave him a migraine) but the latter actually took a conscious effort so, in Charles opinion (and that of the legislature), shouldn't be done without invitation.

"You have nothing to feel guilty about Hank, you're the hardest working postgrad I know. Go, go."

"Thanks Professor," Hank had said, blushing at the praise.

Charles had shaken his head. "How many times have I told you to call me Charles?"

Hank's blush had deepened. "Thanks Charles. Are you sure it's OK?"

Charles had put on a mock threatening voice and said, "Don't make me get out of this chair Hank . . ."

That had startled a genuine laugh out of Hank and, finally, he had gathered his stuff together, crammed it into his backpack and left Charles alone in the lab.

Charles had turned back to his laptop and the data. It wasn't until he'd woken to find his cheek glued to the keyboard with drool and a tad of snot that he'd looked at the time. Gone midnight! He had realised he'd be no use without some sleep so switched everything off, locked up and headed for the main doors.

And that was how he'd found himself gazing out at the gale lashed rain and swearing.

"Bollocking shit!"

Where was his car? On the other side of the campus. Had he brought a coat or an umbrella? Nope, just a jacket, not even one of his tweed ones, which were pretty much waterproof and highly practical contrary to Raven's frequently expressed opinion. Had he got his wet weather gloves? Had he buggery! And to top it all, literally, he didn't even have any hair to protect him from the rain. Charles cursed the impulse for a dramatic change in appearance that had led him to shave his head.

What were his options? A cab? It seemed like massive overkill just to get to the other side of the site, plus how long would he have to wait? He could phone a friend. They would turn out for him, even in this weather and at this time of night. But it would be pretty bloody selfish to drag them out just because Charles didn't want to get wet.

There was always Raven. No matter how pissed off with him she was, she wouldn't leave him in the lurch. Charles sighed, vividly recalling Raven shouting, "Why do you think you can look after me when you can't even look after yourself!" No, he wouldn't be calling Raven.

Nothing for it but to get wet. A little rain wouldn't kill him. Pity it was a full on monsoon out there. Charles suddenly remembered a rhyme one of the staff had taught him and Raven when the two of them were children (they hadn't learnt anything from their mother except how to cover up alcoholism and judge the fuck out of others). Bracing himself to wheel out into the end-of-days type weather, Charles chanted "Rain, rain go away; come again another day".

"Does that ever work?" said a deep voice behind him.

Charles did not squeal like a girl. No, he most definitely did not. That was a manly yell. How the fuck had he not realised someone else was there? Some telepath he was. To make up for the girly squeal / manly yell, he did his fastest, most flashy wheelchair 180.

The man standing behind him was tall and lean, with a frankly impossible shoulder to waist ratio. He had shortish auburn hair and the sort of facial features certain types of writer would describe as "sculpted". Those types of writer would probably describe his eyes as "twin stormy seas, swept by grey mists". Charles found himself feeling a good deal of kinship with those writers. Now that he was looking for it he could feel the man's mind, but it was strangely muted. A very few people were naturally resistant to telepathy. Perhaps this bloke (aka vision of loveliness) was one of them.

"I didn't realise anyone else was here," Charles said, over-compensating for the squeal/yell (squell) by trying to make his voice as deep as the stranger's.

The man's lips - his thin yet sensual lips according to certain writers - curled very slightly upwards. "I gathered that from the way you jumped."

"I didn't jump, I . . . shifted."

The thin yet sensual lips curled up a little more. "Were you about to "shift" outside?"

"Yes, my car's over at the admin block."

"Isn't that the other side of the campus?" Charles nodded.

"You'll be soaked to the skin," said tall, ginger and handsome. "Look, I have a waterproof and an umbrella. I don't need both. Why don't you borrow one?"

So, not only gorgeous, but gallant. Charles was just about to enthusiastically accept the stranger's generous offer and was plotting to find out (1) if he was gay, (2) if he was unattached and (3) if he was interested in Charles, when his thought processes were derailed by an unpleasant realisation. Muted as the man's mind was, Charles could feel that he was unusually focused on the wheelchair. Charles had all too often come across this, people who didn't see him, people who only saw the chair. Charles loved his wheelchair, it was extremely expensive and tailored to fit him and his needs exactly. When he compared it to his first chair, it was like comparing a Masarati to a Reliant Robin. It gave him the freedom to do so many things and go so many places, but that didn't mean the chair was the most important thing about him. Unfortunately, to many people it was. So, the man's offer wasn't gallantry, it was pity and if there was one thing that drove Charles into an unreasoning rage, it was pity.

Charles put on the brilliant, cold, fake smile he had learnt from his mother. "Thank you for your kind offer but I'll be perfectly fine as I am. Goodbye."

His voice sounded particularly clipped and Queen's English, the way it always did when he was really angry. He did a fast and furious 180 and made for the door. He was almost there when his wheelchair stopped and and the man appeared at his side. The bastard must have grabbed hold of it! You didn't do that! You just didn't do that! You didn't grab someone's wheelchair! It was the equivalent, as far as Charles was concerned, of pinning someone down.

"But you'll be drenched." said Mr Ableist Shithead, stating the bleeding obvious as though Charles was the village idiot.

"Let go of my fucking wheelchair!" yelled Charles, completely losing it while maintaining his cut-glass accent.

The man took a step back, mouth set in a thin, hard line. His mind wasn't so muted now and Charles could feel the first stirrings of anger.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was holding it," said Mr A.S. in a flat, cold voice. "Sometimes my mu-"

"I don't give a fuck," snapped Charles, wheeling himself out into the pouring rain and howling gale without a single glance at handsome-but-an-arsehole.

A wave of rage followed him and a string of what sounded like obscenities in German and, possibly, Polish. Charles propelled himself across campus at breakneck speed, powered by fury and disappointment. By the time he got to his car he was as wet as if he'd sat in a power shower with his clothes on. By the time he got home he was shivering (the bloody car heater was playing up again) and his fury had faded to bone-tired weariness. He didn't shower, just dried off with a warm towel, did his night-time routine and fell into bed, feeling utterly wrung out.


	2. In which Moira is annoyed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past domestic abuse. Past violence in defence of another. Hints of an abusive childhood. Italics = telepathic speech.

Moira looked out of the coffee shop window at the cherry trees. Last night's storm had left as many fluffy, pink flowers on the ground as on the branches. Charles was late as usual. No doubt he'd got caught up in answering his students' post lecture questions. Moira was pretty sure she could turn up 20 minutes late and still beat him to it. She never did though. Being a mature grad student with a child meant Moira had no choice but to be highly organised and that included being on time even if you knew your friend was going to be late. She usually caught up on her emails or read research materials while she waited.

She'd forgive Charles a lot more than his perpetual lateness. When she'd finally plucked up the courage to leave her abusive husband, Charles had been incredible supportive. He'd put her and Kevin up while she searched for something more permanent and loaned her the money to secure a tiny but decent apartment.

"I'm obscenely wealthy Moira, if you don't take this money I'm just going to blow it on something stupid, a solid gold yacht say, so you'll be doing me a favour really."

When Joe tried to get custody of Kevin, not because he gave a shit about his son but because he wanted to punish her, Charles had introduced her to an excellent lawyer who'd worked virtually for free. He'd been there when she'd needed a shoulder to cry on, or someone to rage at or share her fears with.

On one memorable occasion, Joe had confronted her on campus. He'd clamped a huge hand over her mouth, dragged her into a quiet corner, hissed obscenities at her and slapped and punched her. Moira had fought back as hard as she could but Joe was a big guy and when he'd punched her to the ground she'd been terrified he'd actually kill her this time, as he'd promised to do so many times.

Suddenly there'd been a blur of movement and Charles and his wheelchair had slammed into Joe, knocking him over. The impact had thrown Charles out of his chair and onto a stunned Joe. Charles had proceeded to punch the ever-loving shit out of Joe, mostly his face, but getting in a few good, solid punches to Joe's balls too. Charles hadn't said a word out loud, but Moira had heard him screaming in her head, an incoherent stream of fury and terror. His anger felt like an almost unbearable physical pressure inside her skull. It was the first time she had ever been scared of him.

In the end she'd pulled him off an unconscious Joe, hauled his wheelchair upright, cajoled him into it and they'd staggered (Moira had never realised you could stagger in a wheelchair but Charles definitely could) into the nearest building. Moira had got the receptionist to call campus security but, by the time they'd turned up, Joe had been long gone. The security guys had escorted them to the med centre and, after they'd been patched up, had taken statements. The doctor had insisted they remain for observation for at least a couple of hours. Moira had taken several blows to the head and body, but there were no bones broken and no internal injuries. She was already sporting some spectacular bruises and plenty of soft tissue swelling. Charles was in better shape, he had some less spectacular bruises and scrapes from falling out of his chair. His hands were pretty banged up though, from punching Joe, and had been bandaged.

The nurse had left them with plastic cups of water and strict instructions to sit still and quiet. "I'll be back to check up on you in just a little while. If you need anything, anything at all you hear, just press that buzzer right there."

Silence fell.

Moira prodded gingerly at her cheek.

Charles absently rubbed at his knuckles.

Moira looked at Charles.

Charles looked at Moira.

"I understand that you felt my fear and pain," she said. "What I don't get is why you left a tutorial, crossed half the campus and punched seven shades out of my shit-stain of an ex when, as an omega class telepath, you could have just frozen him without moving a muscle?"

Charles projected a mix of emotions so complex Moira couldn't even begin to make sense of them.

"I suspect I may not have been entirely in my right mind," he said in a weirdly prim voice. "I fear intense anger may have impacted my reasoning and decision making processes."

Moira snorted (which hurt). "You don't say . . "

Charles made a choking noise. "So, so you noticed I was a bit annoyed?"

She tried to stifle a laugh because nothing about this situation was remotely funny and besides, laughing hurt like buggery.

"Bu, buggery doesn't hurt if you do it right."

And that was it, they both started howling like banshees. God it hurt, but God it felt good, laughing in the face of pain and hatred and fear. Laughing in the face of Joe, cruel, clever, cowardly Joe. Tears streamed down Moira's face and she realised she was crying. Charles put his arms round her, those strong, strong arms, and projected warmth and comfort and love and muttered a load of soothing nonsense in her ear.

Two weeks later he'd told her about his stepfather and stepbrother.

Joe had ended up serving time. Moira had always suspected the police would have let the case drop - domestic violence, a "mutie" involved (as one of the officers had referred to Charles in Moira's hearing) - if it hadn't been for Charles' hugely expensive and absolutely terrifying lawyers.

Moira came back to the present with a start. She was back in the coffee shop, staring sightlessly at the cherry trees. The part was the past and there was no point dwelling on it.

She felt Charles before she saw him, that slight warmth at the back of her skull. Then there he was, navigating his way through the cherry blossom, wearing one of his godawful tweed jackets.

I heard that.

I meant you to. Those fingerless gloves are godawful too.

How very dare you! These gloves are very practical I'll have you know.

Yeah, sure, that's why they're fluorescent orange and shocking pink.

They're sporty.

Oh Charles, you poor deluded soul . . .

By this time Charles had made it into the coffee shop and ordered his usual Earl Grey.

Moira watched as he paid, chatted to the staff, picked up his tea and manoeuvred over to her. There was nothing about him that suggested immense wealth or terrifying telepathic powers. Emma Frost now, she totally worked the super rich and super scary look.

"Oi, I'm just as terrifying as The White Queen."

"You really aren't."

Charles pouted. "Sometimes I wonder why I let you be my friend."

Moira grinned. "No one else wanted the gig?"

He laughed and stole one of her Amaretti. They chatted about Kevin and his problems at school, Raven and Charles' latest quarrel, the morons on the funding committee, Hank's mystery not-date and Frost's latest, white-as-snow yet dirty-as-fuck outfit.

Charles was his usual charming, witty, slightly bitchy self, but Moira had a distinct feeling his heart wasn't quite in it, so she wasn't surprised when he paused in the middle of a story about catching two of his students having sex atop a centrifuge and sighed.

"Moira, would you say I have a tendency to overreact in certain situations?"

He sounded serious so she gave a serious reply. "You're an intelligent man Charles, hell, you're pretty much a genius, plus, as a telepath you have a privileged insight into the human condition. You know why people react the way they do, why you react the way you do, but knowing isn't the same as being able to do anything about it. Did you have anything specific in mind?"

He sighed again. "Last night I worked past midnight. I'd left my car on the other side of the campus and it was pouring with rain and blowing a gale. I was just about to set out into the storm when a man, a complete stranger, interrupted me. He was gorgeous Moira, just unbelievably gorgeous."

Moira got a brief vision of a tall, lean man, with auburn hair, hazel eyes and a starkly handsome face.

"Wow, gorgeous is the word."

Charles gave her a weak smile. "He offered me his waterproof. I was just about to accept and to flirt like mad when I noticed how totally focused he was on my wheelchair. It was such a disappointment. This beautiful man and all I was to him was a lump of metal. So, I said "thanks but no thanks" and was wheeling off into the night when he grabbed my chair."

Moira gasped. She knew what a trigger that was for Charles and why - those fucking Markos!

"Charles, he didn't know, it was rude of him, yes, but he didn't know."

"I know, I know, but I just reacted, shouting and swearing at him and dismissing his apology. Though it was a bullshit apology, saying he didn't know he'd done it. How can you not know you've got hold of a wheelchair?"

"What happened?"

"He was furious and swore at me as I left. I was furious too and just ignored him. Oh Moira, I was so angry I felt sick with it. This morning I started to wonder if I had overreacted and the more I think about it the more I think I did. I don't want to be this angry person, I don't like myself this way. Would it have killed me to ignore his thoughts and focus on his words? Would it have killed me to accept his apology?"

Moira reached across the table and took his hands in hers, aware of the strength in those short, blunt fingers, calloused from wheeling his chair. He was projecting his distress and all she wanted to do was help.

"Don't beat yourself up about it Charles. What's done cannot be undone. You'll do better next time, I know you will."

That got a smile. "Really Moira, a quote from Macbeth?"

"Well, my name is MacTaggert."

That got a laugh and a slight diminution in projected misery. 

"Thank you my friend," he said, squeezing her hands. "And now I think we'd better get to the lab before poor Hank becomes convinced we've been abducted by aliens."

"Jeez Charles, you're a terrible influence, you've made me late and I'm never late."

"Oops?"

They positively sprinted across to the lab, Moira hitching a lift on the back of the chair as there was no way she could keep up with Charles when he was in a hurry. Wheelchair backies were a special privilege granted to a select, deserving few.

Hank looked at them as though he'd been expecting news of their tragic deaths. They both apologised profusely for being so late and for not calling to let him know.

"Oh, it's fine, really, honestly, no problem at all, I just started where Charles left off last night and kept going. I knew you must have important stuff to do or you wouldn't have been late."

From anyone but Hank she would have suspected sarcasm but he was totally sincere. She exchanged a guilty look with Charles.

Moira, I think as penance we shouldn't interrogate him about his mystery not-date.

I agree, not today anyway.

Oh absolutely. Tomorrow it's obviously fair game.

She grinned, glad that Charles' mental touch felt genuinely cheerful. She couldn't help feeling a bit annoyed with the anonymous and extremely handsome man who had upset her friend. Nevermind, they would probably never meet again so that was that. Now, to work.


	3. In which Emma is amused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The campus has suddenly become Columbia. I know nothing of Columbia. Apologies to all Columbia alumni. Also, hastily Googled science stuff.

Emma knew something was up with Erik the moment she saw him. She had bullied him into meeting her for a drink. Left to his own devices he would have worked, eaten and slept and not much else. Oh, and gone for long, exhausting runs. Waiting for him in the rather smart bar she'd chosen for their rendezvous, she enjoyed the effect she was having on the other patrons. The men positively oozed lust and the women crackled with envy. Though there was one woman who glowed with admiration and not a little desire. Emma stole a glance at her. Yes, quite presentable. Emma gave her a slow, dirty smile and sent a little bolt of pleasure her way. Someone was going home with wet panties tonight.

Just as a handsome boy, with a thoroughly dull mind, had got up enough courage to approach her, Emma felt a change in the mental atmosphere. It felt a little like the telepathic equivalent of yesterday's storm. Erik pushed open the door without touching it. God, he was still so militant about flaunting his mutation. Erik shouldered his way through the crowd and gave the handsome boy a thousand yard stare. The boy fled.

You need to learn some subtlety.

Preaching subtlety while wearing that outfit is the height of hypocrisy Frost.

Emma laughed, the loud raucous laugh she saved for friends.

Friends, Ems? Is that what we are?

What would you prefer? Survivors of the same shipwreck perhaps? And outside voice please Erik, it's hard work getting through those bad vibes of yours.

Erik frowned. "If you're talking about the electromagnetic spectrum . . ."

"I'm not one of your unfortunate students Erik, I don't have to listen to the "magnets good, electro-magnets better" lecture".

He smiled, a far more unnerving sight than his frown.

She smiled back, wondering what had caused the storm clouds in his head. "Let me buy you a drink sugar."

"I don't suppose this place has any decent German beer?"

Emma grinned triumphantly. "They do indeed Mr Lenhsherr. I checked before I decided we'd come here. You see how boringly predictable you are?"

Erik's smile broadened alarmingly. "I take it all back Ems, you are a true friend."

Over Erik's beer and Emma's bison grass vodka, they did some catching up. Edie, Erik's mother, was healthy and happy. Emma's parents were, regrettably, alive and well and just as objectionable as ever. She'd been active - very, very active - on the dating front. She'd had a blast, but nothing permanent had come out if it. Work was good, in fact, more than good. She'd recently been made Head of Support Services and Infrastructure for the entire campus.

"Power tripping much Emma?"

"I'm a benevolent dictator honey - the iron fist in the velvet glove. So, tell me about your love life; you know I couldn't give a damn about your work."

Erik grimaced. Apparently he'd thought he'd found The One. Everything had been perfect, they'd been planning to get married and start a family when it had all fallen apart, mainly due to interference from her mutantphobic family and friends.

"Oh Erik, a non-mutant? And since when were you interested in women? Sugar, it was bound to go down in flames. You should think yourself lucky it crashed and burned sooner rather than later."

His lips quirked into a wry smile. "Don't overwhelm me with sympathy Emma."

She shrugged. "Hey, I'm a telepath, not an empath. Besides, my complete lack of compassion is one of the main reasons you like me."

"Who says I like you?" His smile gradually faded. There was a long silence. Emma waited. "Perhaps we're just forced together by our shared history, knowing no one else could understand, drawn to each other without any commonality but pain."

Do you really want to have that conversation? If you do, we definitely need to talk like this.

Erik shook his head.

"So what's bothering you? Even with the dampening effect of your mutation, I can tell something's up. Share Lehnsherr, share. You know I'm the only human being - sorry, mutant - on the planet you ever talk to about anything but work."

He sat in silence, gaze fixed on his beer, absently spinning the bottle top with his power. For a long moment she thought he was going to clam up, then he looked up, face somber.

"It was such a minor thing compared to some of the mutantphobia I've faced. I don't know why it angered me so much. I don't know why it's stayed with me. Here, come on in and have a look."

One of the things Emma liked about Erik was his relaxed attitude to her telepathy. Psionics got used to being feared and hated, even by other mutants, which made Erik's openness so refreshing. She suspected his natural resistance to telepathy had something to do with it. Erik could keep all but the most powerful psionics out. Emma could break down his barriers, had done in the past, but it took some effort and was painful for him and exhausting for her. Yet here he was, inviting her in.

She felt him drawing in his power, tamping it down. She felt his barriers drop and his mind shine out. He always shone so very brightly. Emma lightly touched his surface thoughts and there it was, the memory he wanted her to see.

Erik walks through the darkened building. It's been a good day. Professors Noble and Murakami are excellent collaborators and the rest of the team aren't complete idiots. Accepting the offer of a visiting professorship at Columbia had been the right decision. It's been less than a month, but he's already sure they're going to make great strides in their work on the interaction of metals and bacteria.

As he approaches the exit he realises something's blocking it. A metal something. Erik lets his power spiral out and wrap around the something. It's a wheelchair. 6063 aluminium alloy, T6 temper. Non-ferrous of course, except for a tiny smidge of iron. Magnesium, copper, mangenese, chromium, zinc, titanium, he lazily drifts his power through them. He can even feel the silicon, though that's a metalloid rather than a metal. Once silicon would have been invisible to him. He feels a certain pride in the way his powers keep growing in strength and refinement.

He's so wrapped up in the metals he barely notices the man in the wheelchair until he hears him chant, "Rain, rain go away, come again another day."

Erik's hard put not to laugh out loud. "Does that ever work?"

The man gives a high pitched, frightened yelp and spins his wheelchair round with extraordinary speed and dexterity. He's, well, beautiful, that's the only word for it. He's completely bald, not a look Erik particularly likes but it suits this guy. His shoulders, arms and chest look extraordinarily strong. Erik's gaze lingers longingly on his biceps. He's pale skinned, with dark eyebrows, large, very blue eyes and a nose that's slightly too big for his face. The nose stops him being almost too pretty. As for his mouth, there's only one way to describe those full, red lips and that's "cocksucking". Erik imagines climbing onto the wheelchair, straddling the man's thighs and having that perfect mouth close round his dick.

"I didn't realise anyone else was here." The man's accent sounds English, posh English at that.

Erik can't resist a small smirk. "I gathered that from the way you jumped."

The man actually blushes slightly. "I didn't jump, I . . . shifted."

Erik's smirk grows. "Were you about to "shift" outside?"

"Yes, my car's over at the admin block."

Erik can't help noticing that the guy is totally unprepared for the storm raging outside. A lightweight jacket isn't going to do him much good against this downpour. Erik can't possibly let someone so beautiful get utterly soaked. He has a sudden vision of the man without his jacket, shirt transparent with rainwater and clinging to him like a second skin. Are his nipples the same colour as his mouth?

"Isn't that the other side of the campus?" The man nods. "You'll be soaked to the skin" says Erik. "Look, I have a waterproof and an umbrella. I don't need both. Why don't you borrow one?"

This gets him such a warm smile Erik has to sink his powers into the metal of the wheelchair to avoid getting completely distracted. Metal, metal, metal, just focus on the metal. Then something changes. The man's lovely smile grows cold and superior.

"Thank you for your offer but I'll be perfectly alright as I am," he says, his accent going from pleasantly posh to unbearably condescending.

He spins his wheelchair around and goes to leave. Without really being aware he's doing it, Erik halts the chair. This doesn't make sense. Why has the guy gone from warm to icy in the blink of an eye?

"But you'll be drenched."

"Let go of my wheelchair!" he yells, face red with fury, eyes filled with hatred.

Suddenly Erik gets it. The man must have felt Erik's power in the metal of his chair - a tiny vibration perhaps, the smallest warming - and had suspected Erik was a mutant. When Erik had inadvertently stopped the wheelchair, he'd confirmed the mutantphobe's suspicions. Erik feels his own anger rising.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was holding it. Sometimes my mu-"

"I don't give a fuck!" And with that the shithead rolls out into the night.

Erik's temper, volatile at best, surges up like a tsunami. It takes every ounce of self control he's got not to turn the bastard's chair into a puddle of molten metal. He contents himself with shouting every obscenity he can think of after the prejudiced asshole, some of them in German and Polish. He drives home in a simmering rage, good mood totally destroyed, speeding like a madman and keeping the car on the road with his powers. He's in a vile mood all the next day, but manages to remain professional and swallow his bile. He's still feeling unsettled when he meets up with Emma for drinks.

Emma leant back and let go of the memory. She felt Erik's defences sliding back into place. Unable to help herself, she burst out laughing. The look on Erik's face silenced her but she couldn't keep the amused grin off her face.

"I'm glad you find my run in with a mutantphobe amusing. No doubt you find it hilarious that I was attracted to him at first. I think I'll be going now. I'd like to say it's been a pleasure but I won't insult you by lying."

"Oh honey, calm down and sit down. I'm not laughing at you exactly, well, I am but, trust me, you're going to want to know why I'm so amused."

Reluctantly, Erik sat down. Emma paused to savour the moment. She was so going to enjoy this.

"That "mutantphobe" you met, that's Charles Xavier, Professor of Genetics, and he just happens to be an omega class telepath."

The look on Erik's face was priceless, absolutely priceless. Emma threw her head back and laughed and laughed and laughed.


	4. In which Erik is Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F Scott Fitzgerald: The rich are different from us.
> 
> Ernest Hemingway: Yes, they have more money.
> 
> Emma Frost, an intellectual: Never happened boys.

Emma stopped laughing only because she had a coughing fit and had to signal the bartender for a glass of water.

Erik stared at Emma in disbelief. "He's an omega level telepath?"

She nodded, unable to wipe the smile from her face.

"Then what happened? Since he's not a mutantphobe, why did he go from warm, to icy, to asshole in less than a minute?"

"Well, given the mess that's your head, I'd say he read your mind and didn't like what he saw but, with your electromagnetic whatever, you'd have known if he'd dived on in. Plus, he's sickeningly scrupulous about using his mutation. I'm pretty sure he disapproves of my more, ah, relaxed view of what constitutes permission."

Erik frowned and finished his beer. He felt totally baffled by last night's debacle. Baffled and disappointed. It was rare for him to be so struck by a person and it seemed just plain wrong for it to come to nothing. He looked at Emma, who was draining her glass.

"Want another drink Ems?"

"Same again honey."

He signalled the bartender.

She leaned in with a sneaky grin and breathed "Want me to fill you in on Xavier?"

He felt an impulse to refuse and pretend he wasn't interested but somehow he didn't think she'd be convinced. He might as well find out what she knew.

"Yes."

"What's the magic word?" She fluttered her eyelashes in an absurdly coquettish way. 

Erik sighed. "Please?"

"Hmmm, is that the best you can do?"

"Just tell me before I choke it out of you with a brass curtain rod," he muttered darkly.

That got a belly laugh.

"Now there's the Erik I know and love. So, Charles Xavier. Where to start? Well, he's fabulous wealthy sugar, almost as wealthy as I'll be when my parents finally do the decent thing and die. There was a massive scandal when his mother disinherited him and completely cut him off. I heard all sorts of rumours about her reasons; his attitude towards his stepfather and stepbrother, the wild partying, the fact that at least 50% of the wild partying was with boys, drink, drugs, misuse of his mutation, the whole darn shooting match."

Erik couldn't help thinking that Emma had just described his own adolescence, except he hadn't had a stepfamily and the partying had been 80% boys, plus a fair few run-ins with the police. He tried to imagine his mother disinheriting him - not that there'd been anything to disinherit him from - and couldn't. Edie had loved him through thick and thin.

The bartender set down their fresh drinks. Emma gave him a million megawatt smile, which totally flustered the poor guy. Pleased with the effect she'd had - vanity, thy name is Frost - she turned back to Erik.

"A couple of years later, the stepfather - Kurt Marko, a grade A asshole if ever there was one - dies in some kind of lab fire. Marko's business affairs turn out to be in a real mess, so much of a mess that the authorities take an interest. All sorts of shit starts to hit the fan. Amongst other things, Marko had been siphoning cash from a trust fund set up by Brian Xavier for little Charlie boy and he'd been doing it with the connivance of Charles' mother and the Xavier family lawyers. So, the Feds prosecute Sharon, Charles' mother, and her lawyers. Sharon gets off with a diminished responsibility plea on the grounds of alcoholism and domestic violence at the hands of Kurt. As for Charles, he's suddenly rich again."

Erik shook his head in disgust. "Fitzgerald was right."

Emma shrugged. "I've always been more of a Hemingway girl myself, though that whole quote and counter-quote thing is a myth."

"Careful Emma, your Masters in American Literature is showing."

"Oh hush now and let me finish. So, Charles goes from prince, to pauper, to prince again. He's well on his way to becoming the youngest professor ever appointed at Columbia, when he's in a car crash. Cue tragic violin music. The plucky young mutant struggles to achieve his dreams, without the use of his legs but with a shit-ton of inherited wealth, and becomes second youngest professor ever appointed at Columbia. Makes great strides in the genetics of mutation, blah-di-blah, I'm not interested. Gives generously to worthy causes, heals the sick, walks on water, rescues kittens, everybody loves him."

"Jesus, you are a hard ass bitch," said Erik, amused but disapproving.

"Are you allowed to take the name of our Lord in vain, what with being Jewish and all?"

"Well, since Jesus was Jewish, I'm pretty sure I am allowed."

Emma smiled. "Good point Lehnsherr."

"Is he really such a saint? Xavier I mean, not Jesus. He certainly has a temper. Xavier again, not Yeshu."

"Weren't many saints also pretty spectacular sinners? From what I've heard, and I hear everything sugar, that wheelchair isn't the only thing Xavier rides . . . and he gives rides to girls **and** boys." With that, Emma gave him a truly filthy smirk.

To his embarrassment, Erik felt his cheeks begin to heat. He'd been poleaxed by Xavier's attractiveness - those arms, those eyes, those lips, oh those lips - but rage had supplanted attraction when he'd thought the man was a mutantphobe. Despite Emma's mockery, she'd painted a picture of an intelligent, driven man, born to privilege but knowing suffering, a powerful mutant and a powerfully sexual man. Erik felt a stir of desire in his gut.

Emma's filthy smirk turned even filthier.

"Wow, you've got it bad. Even with the static I can feel how much you want him. You met him for all of a couple of minutes and had some kind of stupid misunderstanding, yet you're totally fixating on him. For once in your life Erik, listen to some advice; hunt that boy down, sort things out between the two of you and fuck the everliving daylights out of him."

Erik's mouth stretched into the toothy grin which terrified everyone but Edie and Emma.

"For once in your life Emma, you've actually given me some good advice. I'd be a fool not to take it. Wish me luck."

Over the next week or so, when he wasn't working or sleeping, Erik's thoughts turned to Charles Xavier. He would be the first to admit he could be a tad obsessive. It had served him well in his career, less well in his personal life.

Googling Xavier brought up a strange mix of info, half scholarly articles and papers on genetics, with a particular emphasis on mutation, and half scandal sheets. The gossip rags had a myriad of photos of a young Xavier falling out of various cars and clubs, usually with a stunning girl or boy on his arm. Erik tried not to feel like a stalker as he pored over pictures of a positively edible looking Charles. Even drunk and disorderly, or scowling at paparazzi, he still looked gorgeous. Erik couldn't help noticing he had a lot of dark chestnut hair in the early photos.

There were a lot of stories about his disinheritance and even more on the financial scandal following Kurt Marko's death. Most were sensationalist rubbish but there were some serious articles too. Charles looked pale, tired and strained in the photos from this period, his smile forced. An absolute spate of stories covered his accident, rear-ended in his car by a texting driver, and there were even photos of him in intensive care, snatched by a pap who'd sneaked into the unit. Later articles mainly focused on his charitable giving and support of various foundations. Many of these were accompanied by pictures of Xavier in a wheelchair and a series of extremely expensive and extremely flattering suits. Slightly worryingly, a very beautiful young blonde girl, dressed to kill, was often at his side in these photos. His hair was shorter, but still thick and healthy looking, and he had an air of power and authority that Erik found a distinct turn-on.

Everything supported Emma's gen, except for the info on Xavier's mutation. Where it was mentioned, and it wasn't mentioned much, the press seemed to think he was some sort of empath or low level touch-telepath. Erik couldn't believe Emma was wrong about Xavier being omega class. Let's face it, if anyone would know, she would. He hoped Xavier wasn't one of those mutants ashamed of their own powers. That would be a deal breaker.

Erik laughed out loud. Here he was, planning a future with a man he'd barely met and with whom he'd parted on bad terms. He was acting like a lovesick teenager, not a grown man in his late thirties.

His sense of the ridiculous didn't stop him from logging onto the Columbia intranet and looking up Xavier's lecture and tutorial schedule. He could quite coincidently turn up after a lecture and accidentally on purpose bump into Xavier. No, that was veering into full-on stalker territory.

Erik was still trying to think of a way to meet Xavier that wouldn't be weird, when they met quite by chance.

He was striding across campus on a blustery Spring day when the rain came bucketing down. The birch and alder trees by the path thrashed in the sudden squall. Erik was about as well prepared as Xavier had been last week. He needed to get out of this to avoid ending up as a drowned rat. Spotting a coffee shop across the way - Full O Beanz, good grief - he dived into the entrance. A lot of other people had had the same idea and the place was heaving. By dint of shoving his way to the front of the queue, ignoring the claims of prior arrivals and glaring fiercely at anyone who looked as though they might make something of it, Erik got his doppio quite quickly. Now he needed somewhere to sit or at least stand without several people leaning on him.

There seemed to be a bit of a gap at the back, under a truly unimaginative black and white photo of some bales of beans. Erik pushed his way in that direction, using his broad shoulders and sharp elbows to good effect, leaving a chorus of "Ow!", "Hey!", "Watch out!" and "Asshole!" in his wake.

Sitting at a tiny table under the boring photo was Charles Xavier, wheelchair being leant on by half a dozen people. Judging by the expression on his face, he wasn't too happy about it and, as Erik watched, he turned to a preppy boy who was virtually sitting on his armrest and said something in a sharp tone. The boy grudgingly stood up. Xavier turned to the window and looked out with a decidedly grumpy expression on his face.

Erik felt a little surge of joy. Xavier was just as beautiful as he'd remembered, even in a vile tweed jacket that appeared to have leather elbow patches. His previously smooth skull was covered in a short growth of dark fuzz. It made him look strangely vulnerable and, at the same time, slightly menacing.

Stepping forward, Erik managed to neatly trip the preppy kid into a crowd of goth/emo types. Taking advantage of the resulting altercation, Erik took the boy's place at Xavier's side. He didn't look up, just carried on scowling at the rain.

It was perfect. Erik couldn't help himself.

"Rain, rain go away; come again another day," he said softly.

Xavier looked up, startled. For a horrible moment Erik thought he didn't remember or, worse still, did remember and was about to blank Erik or tell him to fuck off.

Slowly Xavier's lovely, lovely mouth curved into a smile.

"Does that ever work?" he said.


	5. In which Charles is a git

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't get the circumflex on bete noire godsdammit . . .

"Rain, rain go away; come again another day," said a soft, deep, masculine voice at his side.

Startled, Charles looked up. It was him! The wheelchair grabber! The man Charles had convinced himself was an ableist bastard. The stranger who had triggered his overreaction. He had a slight smile on his face, a smile that was gradually slipping.

"Be the better man," thought Charles. "Give him (and yourself) a second chance. And it has nothing to do with him being even more stunning than you remembered."

He smiled back and said "Does that ever work?"

The stranger gave an abrupt little laugh and subjected Charles to a rather intense stare. Just as before, Charles was picking up virtually nothing from his mind.

"I'd like to explain . . ."

"I think I owe you . . ."

They both spoke at once and then laughed.

"After you," said Charles.

"No, after you, I insist."

"Well, if you insist. I think I owe you an explanation of my behaviour the other night. You were rather gallant, offering your coat to protect me from the rain, and you must have wondered why I reacted so coldly and then so angrily."

Charles paused. He was going to have to reveal that he was a telepath, something which had got him some pretty negative reactions in the past. Sod it, if the guy was a psionicphobe, Charles would give up on him and get the hell out of Dodge.

The stranger waited patiently and looked attentive (and gorgeous).

"I'm a telepath. Usually I pick up people's surface thoughts and feelings without even trying, that's my default state, but I didn't get anything from you except your intense focus on my wheelchair. I assumed you saw me solely in terms of my disability, not as a person, just as an object of pity, and that's why I refused your offer. Then, when you grabbed my chair, I completely lost my temper. There are personal reasons why I find that insupportable, plus it's something of a bete noire for wheelchair users. We tend to see it as an attempt to take away our agency and control. None of this excuses my overreaction but I hope it serves as an explanation and also, perhaps, an apology?"

The man perched himself on the edge of the tiny coffee table and leant towards Charles.

"Thank you for the explanation but you really don't owe me an apology. I owe you one. If I'd given it a moment's thought I'd have realised how insulting it was to grab your chair like that. In mitigation, I did it without realising. I'm metalkinetic and I'd sunk my powers into your wheelchair, something I often do with alloys I find pleasing, so, when you rejected my offer, l held onto your chair quite unintentionally. I thought you'd noticed me using my powers and were some kind of mutantphobe!"

Charles gaped at him. "A mutantphobe?" The man nodded, mouth quirking up a little.

"Oh, my friend, we were determined to misunderstand each other weren't we?"

Charles started laughing and, after a moment, the other man joined in. God, he looked lovely when he laughed, showing all his teeth, grey-green eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I think we're overdue some introductions. I'm Charles Xavier, Professor of Genetics, telepath and definitely not a mutantphobe."

"I'm Erik Lehnsherr, Professor of Metallurgy, just starting a two year visiting professorship from Carnegie Mellon, metalkinetic and magnetic field manipulator."

Right, not only was Erik so attractive Charles could feel his higher brain functions shutting down, he was also intelligent and had a fascinating mutation.

"I've met plenty of telekinetics and we psionics are ten a penny, but I've never even heard of your mutation. Sorry if I sound a bit keen but the genetics of mutation is actually my speciality."

Erik grinned. "Don't worry, I like talking about my powers, so feel free to ask any questions you want."

Charles grinned back. "Be warned, once I get started I may never stop."

"Hit me prof," said Erik in a decidedly flirtatious tone. It was flirtatious wasn't it? God, flirting was tough without the extra feedback of his telepathy.

Charles launched into a series of questions. Erik had manifested at nine years of age. At first he'd only been able to manipulate ferrous metals. Gradually his powers had expanded to encompass non-ferrous metals and he'd begun to realise he could use magnetic fields too.

"Believe it or not I can actually fly. Well, it's more levitation really. I'd be only too happy to take you for a flight Professor Xavier. All in the name of science of course."

OK, that was definitely flirting.

"I'm sure a flight with you would be an unforgettable experience Professor Lehnsherr, if you're certain I wouldn't be too heavy?"

Charles rested his hand on Erik's knee in a concerned-for-my-fellow-mutant-not-touching-him-up-at-all move. To his delight, Erik leaned into the touch.

"I could levitate the ships in New York Harbor, I don't think I'd have much trouble with you, Charles."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at how much trouble I can be," he said and quite deliberately licked his lips.

Erik's eyes dropped to Charles' mouth immediately. "No, I don't think I'd be surprised at all, not based on some of the articles I've read."

Charles blushed with a mix of embarrassment at some of the stuff Erik must have seen and pleasure that he'd been interested enough to look Charles up.

"Don't believe everything you read."

"You mean you haven't made significant advances in your field and you don't support a range of worthy causes?" said Erik, putting on a faux innocent expression.

"You know that's not what I mean. When you're young and rich and stupid and putting it about a bit, the press can't get enough of you. Some of what they published had an element of truth to it, but a lot was complete invention."

Erik put his hand on top of Charles'. His fingers were long and elegant and pleasantly warm. His smile was pleasantly warm too.

"Don't worry, I dismissed most of it as pure fabrication. Besides, I like to make up my own mind about people, not take my opinions from the scandal sheets. There was one thing that puzzled me though. They didn't seem to have any idea of the true strength of your mutation. I couldn't help wondering why?"

Charles drew back his hand, surprised. Just what kind of digging had Erik been doing? He'd always been fastidious in ensuring the public record severely underestimated his powers, so where had Erik got his information?

As though he were the telepath, Erik's smile turned rueful.

"I have a confession to make. I asked my friend Emma Frost about you, purely in a spirit of scientific enquiry you understand. She told me you're omega class."

Charles felt a surge of irritation at Frost. Never mind, Erik didn't seem bothered by his omega classification. Based on what he'd said about levitating ships, he was probably omega level himself.

"I'm flattered you asked Ms Frost about me, though I wish she'd been a bit more discreet. Going back to your question, I suppose I felt the public perception of psionics was pretty negative. With all the rubbish about me in the public domain - you must have seen my family troubles given the full media treatment - I didn't want to be outed as the type of mutant people fear the most."

A slight frown wrinkled Erik's brow. Even his wrinkles were lovely.

"I can understand that, but you're a respected public figure now, why not put the record straight?"

Charles shrugged. "I just don't see that it's anyone's business but my own."

Erik's frown deepened a little. "You don't feel a responsibility to your fellow mutants to be open about your powers?"

It seemed Erik liked to debate. So did Charles, to the point that Raven had often accused him of arguing for the sake of it. He felt a twinge of unease at the thought of his sister. They still hadn't made up after their most recent quarrel. He dragged his thoughts back to Erik, easily done given the vision of frowning loveliness in front of him. He wasn't going to quarrel with Erik, but a spirited debate, well, that counted as foreplay as far as Charles was concerned.

"I've always been open about bring a mutant."

"Yes, but not about the exact nature of your mutation or the extent of your powers. Those of us with what are seen as "dangerous" mutations often face the severest prejudice. Having a well regarded public figure - someone who's made a significant contribution to society, both in his work and charitable activities - come out as omega class would help change perceptions."

"That's a flattering description of me, Erik. I think you give too great a weight to the impact my "coming out" would have. Anyway, most research has found it's mutants with visible mutations that face the most prejudice."

"I'm not saying you'd end discrimination at a stroke," Erik said, sounding increasingly passionate. "But these things are cumulative and it would contribute to, for example, getting the registration law struck down."

"I'm not sure I want the registration law struck down."

Erik stared at him as though he'd grown two heads (Charles actually knew someone with that mutation).

"Are you honestly saying you're happy with the first step on the road to internment and extermination?" Erik wasn't quite shouting, but his voice was raised and people were starting to look at them. Charles could feel his passion burning through the natural barriers around his mind.

"No, of course not. I fought the passing of the universal registration act as hard as anyone - I spent a fortune on lobbying, literally - and I partied hard when we won."

"Then lay down like their bitch when they passed Rhoup," sneered Erik. Rhoup was shorthand for the legislation requiring mutants of Rho class and up to register with federal government.

This was ominously like the quarrel he'd had with Raven, who'd been dabbling in separatism verging on supremacism just lately. He reminded himself that this was a debate, not a quarrel, and Erik wasn't his sister. Erik had a angry flush painted across his high cheekbones. His lips were compressed into a tight line and his eyes were narrowed. Charles felt a desperate urge to make Erik understand why he hadn't fought Rhoup. He took a deep breath and quietly turned away the attention of the people surrounding them.

"When, ah, when I was in the car crash, I was knocked unconscious. The first responders found my ID in the wreckage, spotted my Rhoup number and alerted the NY Bureau of Mutant Affairs. The BMA advised the paramedics which drugs were suitable to keep a powerful telepath sedated and dispatched a helicopter with a specialist psionic on board. She stabilised my telepathy with a combination of her powers and a fuck-ton of heavy duty suppressants. Without her, without Rhoup, I could have broadcast my pain and terror across the entire city. The BMA kept the whole thing quiet. They took the view that the public interest was best served by not knowing how close the city came to a telepathic melt-down. I, um, I was grateful for the secrecy. I don't want people to look at me as if l'm a nuclear warhead on a hair-trigger."

All around them people talked, laughed, drank coffee, checked their phones, tapped away at their tablets and munched pastries. Erik and Charles sat in a bubble of silence.

When Erik spoke, his voice was quiet and gentle. "I understand why you feel the way you do, but we don't need Rhoup and the BMA to provide that kind of help. Mutant affairs should be managed by mutants."

Still feeling a little shaky, Charles responded by pointing out that the BMA was chock-full of mutants.

Erik dismissed this with an elegant wave of his hand. "The director is a human, eighty percent of the upper echelons are human, the oversight committee is composed of human politicians with a token "Uncle Tom" mutant."

Charles rallied a little at this. "First of all, you are making an arbitrary distinction between humans and mutants where none exists. As a geneticist I can assure you that we are the same species. Secondly, I know the BMA isn't perfect but it's improved massively, in terms of representation, over the last few years. Finally, when you say mutants should handle their own affairs, are you suggesting we should have our own judicial system, our own educational system, our own social services?"

"Firstly, there may be no genetic distinction between humans and mutants, though some scientists argue the opposite . . ."

"A handful of frauds and nutters," grumbled Charles.

Erik grinned but carried on. "But there is a clear distinction between humans and mutants in terms of health, educational outcomes, prosperity, access to services and political and cultural representation. Study after study has shown that mutants do less well than humans in all those areas. Secondly, if the BMA carries on "improving" at the current pace we'll be in the next millennium before they have a mutant director. Thirdly, maybe the only way for us to get justice, education and equality is to have separate systems."

"No, no, no. Separatism will only make things worse. You're like a person of colour arguing for apartheid."

"I see myself more as Malcolm X, with a clear view of my enemies."

"Humans aren't our enemies. We are humans. What about our "human" mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends, husbands, wives, lovers, children? Should we cast them off, separate ourselves from them?"

"I'm not saying there aren't exceptions but, on the whole, mutants are better than humans; stronger, faster, smarter and more suited to the rapidly changing world."

Charles shook his head. "And what about people with disabilities, people like me? Where do we fit in?"

"As long as they're mutants, they fit right in with the rest of us." Erik leaned forward with a wicked gleam in his eye and let one hand rest on Charles bicep. "As for you Charles, I can think of any number of places you'd fit."

"Oh, Erik, don't think you can distract me with bad double entendre."

"Oh, Charles," echoed Erik, "Emma warned me you're an idiot integrationist but I won't hold it against you. There are other things I'd much prefer to hold against you."

Stung by being called an "idiot integrationist", particularly because those were the exact words Raven had used when they'd fought, appalled by Erik's views and aroused, despite himself, by Erik's dreadful double entendre, Charles opened his mouth and put his foot in it.

"Better an idiot integrationist than a supremacist nazi!" As soon as the words left his mouth he knew he'd made a hideous mistake.

Charles closed his eyes for a second and wished his mutation included the ability to turn back time.

When he opened them, Erik was sitting absolutely still on his makeshift seat. For a split second Charles saw a look of deep hurt on that handsome face, then it was gone and Erik was completely expressionless. The storm of rage overwhelming Erik's defences gave the lie to his calm, cold expression. Erik stood so abruptly the little table toppled over. Everyone in the coffee shop turned to stare.

"Thank you for the conversation Professor Xavier. I will be very busy during my time at Columbia and I am quite sure I shall never see you again. Goodbye."

Charles' wheelchair vibrated alarmingly. Erik turned and forced his way out of the shop. A few people, who weren't quick enough to move, appeared to be dragged out of the way by their belt buckles and jewellery.

"Wait, Erik, wait. I'm sorry, let me explain, I didn't mean it. Erik! Professor Lehnsherr!"

It was no good. Erik was gone. The vibration in his chair faded away. For a moment Charles thought of chasing him but he'd have to get his wheelchair out of the rammed shop first and without some serious mind control that would take ages. Just for a second, Charles was tempted. He could do a quick memory wipe afterwards. No, he had behaved quite badly enough today. No need to make it even worse. At least he didn't recognise any of the students and staff who were staring at him and muttering to each other.

At that precise moment he felt a mind he recognised, radiating contact embarrassment. Hank.

Are you alright professor, I mean Charles?

Not really. I just blew a second chance with someone I find fascinating and incredibly attractive by calling him a nazi . . .

Hank's embarrassment rocketed skywards.

Oh well, at least he isn't German.

With a sinking heart, Charles recalled the German obscenities flung after him that stormy night.

Actually, I think he might have German ancestry.

More embarrassment from Hank.

Oh dear. Still, could be worse, he could be Jewish.

A feeling of creeping dread stole over Charles. Of course there were plenty of German Americans who weren't Jewish but, then again, there were plenty who were.

Charles righted the table and let his head connect with the top with a dull thunk. The angle was incredibly uncomfortable but he felt he deserved it. He couldn't help noticing his spoon was fused to the table.


	6. In which Emma is bad ass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAD ASS!

Emma got up from her desk, stretched and walked to the window. The plans for the extension to the performing arts block were looking good. Funding was in place, detailed specifications complete and building permits applied for. Emma couldn't help feeling pleased with herself for steering the major works committee towards the architect of her choice and away from their initial selection. The guy they'd wanted was a bit too blingy for Emma's tastes. Not that bling was necessarily a bad thing - she could turn into a living diamond after all - but the woman they'd eventually chosen had produced an austere, elegant design, which worked perfectly with the existing structures yet had its own distinct personality.

She gazed out at the southern magnolia growing against the opposite wall. It was at the northern edge of its range here, but the wall was south facing and the magnolia was thriving. Emma looked forward to late summer when it would be covered in huge, creamy, waxy-petalled flowers, filling the air with fragrance.

She returned to her desk and started ploughing through her emails. She was just composing a waspish reply to a particularly stupid one, when she felt a familiar mind approach. Erik.

Her office door slammed open a good ten feet in front of him, then slammed shut behind him. Emma winced.

"If you break my door I'll make you pay for it."

"He called me a nazi," said Erik in the flat, dead tone which meant trouble in Emma's experience.

"You do know I'm working here? How would you like it if I walked into your lab and interrupted your metal polishing and bacteria feeding or whatever the hell it is you do?"

Erik paced up and down in front of her desk, flipping a coin round his fingers. Oh dear. This was bad. Emma resigned herself to not getting any more work done until she'd beaten some sense into Erik.

"Sit down, that carpet's almost new." He sat and stared blankly at her nameplate. 

"OK, who called you a nazi and why?"

For a long moment she didn't think he'd speak, then after an obvious internal struggle he gritted out, "Xavier".

Emma's eyes widened. From what she knew of Xavier he didn't seem the kind of guy to go round randomly calling people nazis.

"I need a little background, honey."

Erik gave a nasty laugh. "I was following your advice Emma. I cleared up our misunderstanding, we were flirting, debating, getting on like a house on fire, and then he called me a nazi. I was right in the first place, he's an asshole and I'm not going to waste anymore time on him and I'll make damn sure I never see him again."

"Hmmm." The word **debating** rang warning bells in Emma's head. "So, what were you saying before he called you a nazi?"

A series of micro-expressions flickered across Erik's face.

"Just look why don't you?" he muttered wearily.

Emma waited for his shields to drop and gently wound herself into the memories he was projecting.

"Oh sugar, where do I even start? Look, in my opinion Xavier shouldn't have called you a nazi. I'm all for nazis being called out, and punched in the face for that matter, but it's also important not to misuse a term with such powerful and negative connotations. It's a word which gets flung around way too often, without the flingers truly thinking through the implications of what they're saying. Don't even get me started on "feminazi".

"I knew you'd agree with me," began Erik, sounding decidedly smug. Well, she'd soon put a stop to that.

"Just you hold your horses, honey. I'm not finished yet. Now I don't have much of a problem with most of what you said, but the whole "mutants are superior to humans" speech? Really Erik? Really? I thought you'd put that crap behind you a long time ago. I know I have. You need to think real hard about where that supremacist shit is coming from. You need to think about **who** it's coming from. Do you really want to hear Shaw's bullshit coming out of your own mouth?"

Erik's face turned pale. The coin he'd been flipping squeezed into a sphere and flew up to orbit the room.

"Don't you dare, Emma! Don't you dare compare me to him!"

"I'm not comparing you to him, you're doing that all on your own. And keep it down, I just had to stop my secretary from bursting in to rescue me."

Erik stayed taut as a bowstring for a moment, then all the tension bled out of him. The sphere dropped into his hand.

"You'll never need rescuing from me, Emma."

"You might need rescuing from me if you carry on like this. Why did you say it, Erik? I know you're a separatist, I am too, though not to the ludicrous extent you are, but you're not a supremacist."

Erik slid back in his chair and dragged his fingers through his hair.

"Honestly Emma, I don't know. I think part of it was that I got really caught up in the debate, Xavier is a great debater by the way, and got carried away. Plus, I was showing off, I wanted to impress him, "Hey, look at me defending this untenable position".

He paused. The sphere rose from his hand, split into three mini-spheres and circled round his head.

"And, and sometimes it's like Shaw's still in my head, like a tumour the radiation can't kill."

"The tumour's gone, Erik. You're free of his sickness. We both are. You can't let the after-effects stop you being the decent person you are."

Silence, except for the faint whooshing of the spheres. Emma would bet good money Erik's next words would be some kind of a jokey insult. He couldn't stand too much heavy duty emotional stuff. She was much the same.

"You know Ems, sometimes I think you're not such an evil bitch after all," he said with a sly smile.

Bang on the money.

"Erik, I'm deeply offended. My correct title is Evil Bitch Queen."

That got a laugh from him. He melded the three spheres back into one, then formed it into a coin again.

"What now Ems? Should I give up on Xavier? I said I never wanted to see him again but that was a lie. I don't know, maybe it's just not meant to be and yet, somehow, I don't want to stop trying. Your last piece of advice was pretty shitty but I'm generous enough to give you another chance."

"The advice was good, your execution was shitty. I think you should stay away from him for the moment, you both need time to cool off."

"And then?"

"And then I'll get back to you when I've had a chance to think about it."

Erik looked decidedly disgruntled.

"Patience, sugar. You're acting like a hormonal teenager."

"I feel like a hormonal teenager."

"Then go do your homework and stay away from the bad kids who hang out under the bleachers."

He gave her his widest, toothiest smile and said "Yes ma'am" over his shoulder as he left.

Emma shook her head and was about to plunge back into her emails when she noticed something shiny balanced on the edge of her desk. She picked it up. Sitting in the palm of her hand was a tiny metal apple, complete with stem and a single leaf. For a moment she didn't get it, then she smiled almost as broadly as Erik, though not so toothily.

An apple for teacher.

She was pondering the whole Xavier/Lehnsherr thing at the nail salon - Get Nailed! - when she got distracted by the thoughts of her manicurist.

Candy was a tiny, fierce, punkish little thing, a bit like the heroine of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo". She knew Emma was a strong telepath, couldn't give a shit and never bothered to even try to censor her thoughts around her. Emma could admit to a slight crush.

Gonna own this salon one day, hell, gonna own a whole chain of salons, then bitches gonna work for me.

Big dreams, sugar.

It's no dream, it's a fact, so you shut your mouth miss high and mighty.

I admire your ambition, Candy, and your nerve. If you ever want advice on making your dream into fact, I'd be happy to provide.

Don't need your advice, got it all planned out, now keep quiet and stop distracting me less you want me to file your finger right off.

Emma turned to Professor Munroe in the next seat.

"When you recommended this place I didn't realise the best manicure in the city would come with the worst customer service."

Ororo laughed and sent a warm wisp of a breeze to ruffle Emma's hair. She was a strikingly beautiful woman of colour, a powerful weather manipulator and the closest thing Emma had to a female friend.

"They do say you have to suffer for beauty, Emma. Besides, you've got it easy. At least she insults you in your head, she insults me out loud."

Candy glowered up at them, then bent her head over Emma's hands. Her thoughts turned to the delicate cherry blossoms she was painting over a nude base coat.

Emma let her own thoughts drift out and away across the city, surfing the waves of emotion without focus or intent. She was in that relaxed state between waking and sleeping when she felt the telepathic equivalent of a polite knock. She knew who it was straight away and she had a pretty good idea what it was about. It was too good an opportunity to miss, she was going to have to fuck with him just a little.

Ms Frost, I'm very sorry to trouble you but might I have a word?

Professor Xavier, my office hours are 8am to 6pm, Monday through Friday.

Ah, yes, sorry, but this isn't actually work related. I'd be very grateful if you could give me just a few minutes of your time.

Very well, continue.

There was a long pause and Emma felt a distinct sense of trepidation from Xavier.

I'm a busy woman, Professor. Which was true enough. He didn't need to know that at this precise moment she was busy getting her nails done. Besides, nails were important.

Of course, my apologies. I, er, understand you are a friend of Professor Lehnsherr?

I am.

Am I right in thinking he's of, erm, German ancestry?

Professor Xavier, is this some kind of ethnological study?

What? No, no, not at all. We were talking, Erik, I mean, Professor Lehnsherr and I, and I said something that, ah, could have been taken as particularly offensive by someone with German antecedents.

What did you say?

A spike in anxiety from Xavier. Emma shielded her increasing hilarity as hard as she could.

I may have called him a na, a na, na . . .

A nancy-boy?

No! Good god no. Why would I use an offensive and outmoded homosexual slur?

Well, he is gay.

I'm bi. Anyway, why on earth would nancy-boy be particularly offensive to someone with German ancestors?

He could have thought you were referring to the city of Nancy, which, despite its proximity to the border, remained French when Prussia annexed Alsace-Lorraine. He might have felt you were mocking Germanic territorial ambitions?

What in heaven's name? That makes no sense whatsoever . . .

Tendrils of suspicion, hardening into certainty, reached out from Xavier. His mental voice went from "apologetically baffled" to "irritated with a touch of amusement".

Ms Frost, would you by any chance be fucking with me?

Emma dropped her shields and let her laughter flood out. After a couple of seconds, Xavier joined in.

Would I be right in thinking Erik told you about our disastrous meeting in Full O Beanz?

He certainly did. Oh, and he's Jewish by the way.

A burst of mortification from Xavier. Emma decided to take pity on him.

Let me make this easy for you, Charles. You don't mind me calling you Charles, do you?. Wordless assent. It was a dick move to call him a nazi, but he was a being a dick by spouting that supremacist crap. I'm pretty sure you don't really think he's a nazi or we wouldn't be having this conversation. I know he's not a supremacist, a separatist, yes, and an idiotically extreme one, but not, in his heart of hearts, a supremacist. That make you feel any better?

Charles projected a rueful, wistful, hopeful sort of feeling.

Yes, it does actually. Thank you, Emma. Was he very angry?

Oh yes, but anger is Erik's default state, and he calmed down when I explained that he'd been an asshole too. He's still interested you know.

In, in me?

No, in the city of Nancy in France. Yes, of course in you.

A surge of yearning, quickly closed off. Damn, Charles had it as bad as Erik. Emma decided to be a true friend to Lehnsherr and her new BFF Xavier. She basked in the warm glow of altruism and knowing they would both owe her big-time after this.

You know, if two people wanted to act like civilised human beings, or civilised mutant beings for that matter, have a sensible conversation and get to know each other, they might want to go to a restaurant. They might want to go to a Thai restaurant since one of them really loves Thai food. Oh, and here's the phone number of the Thai food lover. Word of advice, stay away from politics.

Xavier sent her sunshine and rainbows and some, frankly, freakish-looking unicorns.

Thank you, Emma, thank you so much.

Then he was gone. Emma resurfaced to find Candy had finished her nails.

"You want crystals?"

Emma grinned like the cat that got the cream.

"I don't need crystals, sugar, I'm diamond."

Her flawless skin transformed into living diamond, filling the salon with shimmering points of light. Ororo's smile was pure delight. Even Candy looked faintly impressed. Emma admired her new manicure against her sparkling fingers and tried not to feel too smug.


	7. In which they have dinner and sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dissing of Anne Rice and also the "Twilight" novels and films. I'm sorry, but it's not personal, it's just business.

Erik arrived at the Orchid House ridiculously early. It was an upmarket restaurant, with subtle lighting, tasteful modern furniture and various bronze Buddhas disposing themselves elegantly around the place. Several beautifully carved wooden screens divided up the room and a huge arrangement of white orchids stood at one end of the glittering bar. The staff were immaculate in royal blue and gold.

When Charles had called to invite him out to dinner and had suggested this place, he'd agreed immediately. He would have preferred somewhere a lot more downmarket, like Wondee Siam or Thai Market, somewhere noisy and bustling and homely, but Emma had given him strict instructions to play nice. The phone call with Charles had been excruciatingly stilted and awkward. Erik could only pray dinner would be an improvement. He longed to recapture the ease of their coffee shop conversation, excluding the nazi part of course.

He sat at the bar, sipping his good but overpriced beer and trying to quell his nerves by counting all the cutlery with his powers. He was just enumerating the big cleavers in the kitchen when the door opened and Charles rolled in. Erik felt very glad he'd made an effort with his own clothes - anthracite grey suit and dove grey linen shirt - because Charles was suited and booted to the max. He wore a cobalt blue suit, the jacket draped over his shoulders, and an old-gold waistcoat over a pale blue shirt. Like Erik, he'd forgone a tie, and his top two buttons were undone, which meant the pale hollow of his throat and the strong lines of his collar bones were clearly visable. Erik felt a little like a Victorian gentleman catching sight of a lady's ankle. Then Charles caught sight of him and smiled and Erik felt more like a Victorian lady who was about to have the vapours.

Charles wheeled over to the bar, followed by an attentive hostess.

"Erik," he said.

"Charles," said Erik.

Wow, this was like the wit circle of Oscar Wilde. The hostess asked Charles if he wanted a drink, passed his order for a gin and tonic to the barman, gave them menus, described the specials and then retired to a discreet distance. Silence reigned.

Erik decided to plunge in. "Charles," good start Lehnsherr, "I want to try to explain my stance on mutant rights."

A slightly agonised look crossed Charles face. "Please don't. Emma assures me you're not a supremacist and that's good enough for me. Usually I would love to debate separatism versus integration, but Emma warned me off politics and I think she's probably in the right. Just for this evening, can't we try not to say or do anything we need to apologise for? We can always argue again another day."

"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. Truce, Xavier?"

"Truce, Lehnsherr."

Charles offered his hand and Erik took it. Charles' hand was broad, with short, stubby fingers and a calloused palm. Erik had a wild urge to press those strong fingers against his crotch but contented himself with a firm handshake instead.

"You know, I've never had Thai food," said Charles, flipping through his menu.

"Never had Thai food? Not even pad Thai? How the hell did you get through your student years without having Thai take-out?"

"It wasn't deliberate, it just never happened. Besides, a lot of my student years were spent in Oxford and we tended to get Indian takeaways, oh, and pizza of course. And chips - that's fries to you - chips with everything."

"Right, put down that menu, I'm ordering and I'm going to show you what you've been missing."

"Yes sir," said Charles, meekly folding his hands in his lap and casting down his eyes. Then he looked up at Erik through his dark eyelashes and licked his lips. "I can't wait to taste your . . . choices."

Erik flashed right back to his first sight of Xavier and his fantasy about Charles' mouth.

"I hope I won't disappoint you, Charles."

"Oh, I'm sure you won't."

"Can you take it hot and spicy?"

"I can take it any way you like."

It was probably just as well the waiter turned up at that point. Erik ordered all his favourite dishes, a couple more drinks and a bottle of wine. Charles graciously gave his approval to Erik's choices. The conversation turned to work. Charles **seemed** genuinely interested in the interactions between metal and bacteria. Erik **was** genuinely interested in Charles' work on the multiple genes involved in switching on a mutation.

"When did you manifest, Charles?"

"I don't really remember. I think I was about two, because I'd just learned to talk and suddenly I stopped. For a long time nobody knew why. My mother and the family doctor thought I might be autistic. I'd cry for no reason, refuse to come out of my room and I wouldn't play with other children. My father wasn't convinced by the diagnosis of autism and, since we were very rich, he could afford to seek a second and a third and, finally, a fourth opinion. DNA testing showed I was a mutant. MRI scanning proved me a telepath. My mother was horrified. She wanted me put on suppressants straight away. My father flatly refused. He managed to track down a specialist in early psionic manifestation, a telepath herself. She protected me with her own shields while she taught me how to build my own. She was a lovely woman, Hazel Hammond her name was, and she made everything into a glorious game. I had a wonderful time with her and missed her terribly when she moved on to her next patient."

Erik thought of a tiny Charles, tormented by what should have been a gift and rejected by his mother. He barely stopped himself from launching into a passionate speech about how this was just one more proof of the necessity of separate mutant health care and education. They were trying to avoid politics, plus it would be fucking insensitive to use Charles' suffering to prove a point, particularly a point Charles would disagree with.

A hesitant smile curved Charles' lips. "I don't know what it is about you, Erik, but on our second meeting I told you about the accident and tonight I've talked about my manifestation. I never talk about these things."

"I'm honoured."

Xavier gave him an almost shy look. The moment was broken by the waiter asking if they wanted to go to their table. The first batch of dishes arrived soon after. Their waiter explained what everything was and they dived in. Charles enjoyment of the food proved to be a severe trial to Erik. He made the most embarrassing moaning noises when he bit into something particularly good. He licked sauce from his fingers in a truly obscene way. The moistening of his lips with his tongue was temptation incarnate.

"So, what do you do when you're not working, Erik?"

Somehow he seemed to make even a simple question sound suggestive, unless that was just Erik's vivid imagination. He'd never been more glad of his natural resistance to telepathy.

"I enjoy running but that's about it. Oh, I read of course, factual stuff mostly. I can't tolerate most modern fiction. I have a bit of a thing for Jane Austen, which people seem to think is a bit strange for a man."

Charles scoffed. "Stupid people. I'm very fond of the divine Jane myself."

"It was my mother who got me into Austen. Her novels weren't at all what I expected. For a start, they're so funny. The precision of her writing appeals to me, as does her insight into character and motivation. The way she skewers pretension and pettiness can be quite cruel."

"Yes, she has a sharp eye for human frailty. What's your favourite?"

"It has to be "Emma" and that's not because it's the name of my only friend. I like the fact that Emma is a bit of a flawed heroine, a bit of a bitch."

"Are we still talking Woodhouse or are we back on Frost?"

Erik laughed. "What about you, Charles? What's your favourite Austen novel?"

"Weirdly enough it's "Northanger Abbey". I love the way she takes the piss out of the gothic. I like to imagine Austen throwing shade on Anne Rice."

"Next you'll be telling me you're not a "Twilight" fan."

Charles snorted. "Don't get me started. My sister was obsessed with those bloody books when she was a teenager. I picked one up once but quickly put it down again. Then the fucking films came out. As far as I'm concerned the only good vampire is one that bursts into flames in the sunlight. "Buffy" yes, sparkly vampires no."

"So, you're a "Buffy" fan?" Erik grinned his widest grin.

"Don't judge me Lehnsherr."

"I'm not, I'm just wondering what other deep, dark secrets you're hiding."

Charles leant forward over the table and fixed Erik with his bright blue eyes.

"I'd be more than happy to expose my secrets to you," he said, giving Erik a look best described as "smouldering".

Erik smouldered right back. "I'd be more than happy to see anything you'd care to expose."

"Would either of you gentlemen like to see the dessert menu?"

Both of them jumped. Charles responded with an enthusiastic "Yes, please." Erik shook his head. "I'll just have an espresso."

Watching Charles eat chocolate mousse was an erotic education in itself. It wasn't much of an education in accuracy though, as he spilt it on his collar and the front of his waistcoat. He'd even got a bit on his cheek, just a fraction away from the corner of his mouth. He didn't seem to notice. Erik noticed, but he wasn't about to do anything so cliched as to wipe it off with his thumb. Charles had been very tactile during dinner; a brush of fingers across the back of his hand, a light touch to his forearm, a clasp of his shoulder. Erik let his powers sink into the metal of Charles watch and signet ring, warm from contact with his skin. He was tempted to feel-out the zipper in his pants, but decided that would be a step too far.

Charles finished off his mousse and ordered a jasmine tea. Erik had another espresso.

"Oh, bugger." He'd spotted the chocolate on his shirt and waistcoat. He looked mournfully at the stains and then at Erik.

"I suppose I'd better attempt to clean up before I go out in public."

The mournful look slowly morphed into a dirty little grin.

"They have an excellent accessible restroom here, I checked."

"That's . . . good?"

"Very spacious, very clean, plenty of room for a wheelchair user and carer." Charles raised an eyebrow and did a pouty thing with his lips.

Was Xavier really suggesting what he thought he was? Erik had been aware of Charles' telepathy all evening as a slight warmth against his shields. The temperature of that psionic touch had suddenly shot up. Charles did the maddening lip-licking thing again. Erik couldn't believe he was considering this, bathroom sex with a man he barely knew, but oh he wanted it, wanted Charles, so fiercely it hurt. This was an incredibly stupid idea. They were both responsible adults. It was entirely riduculous.

Charles' filthy smile faded. He looked away. The heat pressing on Erik's shields began to cool. No, no, he couldn't bear to blow - ha - this opportunity.

"Would you like some help with your, ah, clean up?"

That got him a smile so joyful, so sinful, he could scarcely bear it.

"Why Erik, how very kind of you." Charles turned away and spoke to one of the staff. "I need to use your accessible restroom. Would you mind terribly if my companion came with me to give a helping hand?"

"Of course not sir, this way."

The bathroom was indeed very spacious and very clean. No sooner was the door closed then Charles grabbed Erik's hips, hauled him onto his lap and kissed him long and slow and filthy. The angle was uncomfortable and bits of wheelchair were digging into Erik but he didn't give a shit. Charles slid his tongue into Erik's mouth, all heat and spit and chocolate and Thai spices and expensive wine. Erik got one hand on Charles' fantastically muscled shoulder and the other on the back of his skull. His hair was way too short to pull. It felt a bit like velvet or the pelt of some animal.

Charles stopped kissing Erik long enough to hiss, "We're going to have to be really quick and really quiet."

"Yes, yes, just don't stop."

Charles dived back in and sucked Erik's tongue the way Erik had been imagining him sucking on his cock. Erik scrabbled at the buttons on Charles shirt and managed to get it half undone. His nipples were the same colour as his mouth. Erik pulled away from the frantic tongue action and latched onto one nipple with his mouth and the other with his fingers. He licked, sucked, nipped and pinched until Charles gasped, "Oh you fucker, you lovely dirty fucker you."

There was something about swearing in a cut-glass English accent that drove Erik insane with lust.

"What do you want, Charles, tell me, anything, I'll do anything, what do you want?"

Charles cheeks were flushed, his eyes were glazed and he sounded absolutely desperate as he moaned, "Your cock in my mouth."

Erik's powers sent a tremor through every piece of metal in the room.

"Get up here on the wheelchair, kneel up, that's it, knees on the outside of my legs, that's right, now get that cock out."

Erik unzipped with his powers and tugged his erect dick out of his boxers. Charles' eyes widened.

"It's a good thing I can suppress my gag reflex."

"Told you mutants were superior."

Charles snorted with laughter and slapped Erik's ass. He clamped his left hand to Erik's right buttock, digging his fingers in with bruising strength. He used his right to gently squeeze and tug at Erik's balls, then closed his fingers round the base. He leant in to press a series of delicate kisses to the head, looking up at Erik with his huge blue eyes, then licked him from base to tip, again and again and again, until Erik had to cling to his shoulders or fall over.

"It's all right darling, I've got you and I'm going to take good care of you."

With that, he took the head of Erik's cock into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then a little harder, then harder still. Just when it was getting too much, he swapped to swirling his tongue around and tapping at the slit. Charles started taking him deeper and deeper, getting into a rhythm, keeping his eyes fixed on Erik's face. He looked obscene, perfect mouth stretched round Erik's cock, spit and pre-come streaking his chin, face bright red, sweat beading his forehead. He was the most beautiful thing Erik had ever seen.

Erik dragged his fingernails through Charles short hair, ran his hands along his shoulders, squeezing and stroking, and then gripped his biceps, which felt rock solid. Charles moaned around his dick, then in one slow, smooth glide, deep-throated him.

"Fuck, Charles, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!"

Charles slid back, so only the head was in his mouth, then took Erik all the way down again. Erik sobbed. He felt Charles' throat flutter around his cock. He struggled not to thrust frantically into the heat and pressure. Charles' presence against his shields blazed up in a flare of glory and suddenly Charles was inside his head.

Do it, Erik, fuck my face. I want it hard, I want it to hurt, I want to feel it for days afterwards. You're mine, prove it to me, Erik.

Erik thrust fast and hard, breathing in great, gasping, sobs. Then he was coming, buried deep in Charles' throat, Charles' eyes streaming with tears. For a moment, he was Charles and Charles was Erik and they were coming, coming, coming.

He came to slumped half over Charles and half over the wheelchair. He levered himself off and sagged against the wall. Charles looked utterly wrecked but he was smiling like an idiot. Erik felt exhausted and exalted. He felt, fuck, he didn't know how he felt. Was sex always like that with telepaths or was it just Charles? How the fuck had he got into Erik's head so easily? Was this a one-off? God, he hoped not. Most pressing of all just at this very moment, what were they going to tell the staff who were shouting and banging on the door?


	8. In which there are flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on spinal cord injury but I'm no expert. If anyone spots any hideous mistakes please let me know.
> 
> Also, SEX!

Charles knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't help it. He'd sucked Erik's cock, his unfeasibly large cock. Erik looked completely ruined. "I did that", thought Charles, proudly. His grin faded as he became aware of the banging on the door and the mix of concern and suspicion from the minds outside. Shit, so much for being quick and quiet. What's more, if he wasn't to fuck up his bladder management routine, he needed to catheterise himself.

Erik tucked away his dick, straightened up his clothes, ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door.

"Hang on a sec, Erik, I need a pee," he said, voice throaty from the face-fucking. 

Charles reached into his bag, got out a LoFric sterile disposable catheter and inserted it into his urethra with practised ease. As his bladder drained, he sneaked a glance at Erik. He didn't look repulsed, just mildly interested. Charles felt a relief that had nothing to do with taking a piss. He'd had some bad experiences with partners who couldn't cope with the nitty-gritty of a paraplegic's life. He removed the catheter, chucked it in the bin, zipped up and splashed some water in his face.

"Right, I think we'd better get out there and face the music."

"OK, but first . . ."

Erik bent down and kissed him. Charles tried to deepen the kiss but Erik laughed and drew back, saying, "I'd love to go for another round but I think they're about to break down the door."

"Just one more?"

Erik smiled and shook his head then leaned down to kiss him anyway. As their lips met, someone outside managed to work out how to use the emergency unlocking mechanism.

Erik straightened up. Charles tried to look respectable but, judging by the looks on the faces of the half dozen staff who were staring in at them, failed miserably. He was hit by a wall of annoyance, amusement, disgust and, from an exceptionally pretty waitress, arousal.

"My apologies for bursting in on you," said the maître d', tone anything but apologetic. "We heard some unusual noises and feared you might be having . . . difficulties."

Charles knew his face was beet-red. Erik remained admirably composed.

"Nothing we couldn't handle ourselves but thank you for your concern," said the smooth bastard.

The maître d' bowed. "I shall have your bill prepared immediately." Clear as day Charles heard "they're lucky I don't call the cops".

They split the check and left a huge tip. A cohort of icily polite staff saw them to the door. The pretty waitress caught Charles' eye and winked. Outside it was dark and cool and still. The lights draped over a clipped pine shone blue and white.

"We didn't get them to call us a cab," said Erik. "Shall I go back inside and ask?"

"Perhaps best not."

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind."

"I'm bloody sure they would."

Erik began to laugh. Charles joined in. Once they'd started, neither of them could stop.

"I haven't done anything like that since I was a teenager," said Erik, wiping the tears from his eyes. "You make me feel like a teenager."

"What, angry and hormonal?"

"Pretty much. You know I think we'd better move on, they're looking at us out of the restaurant windows."

They headed towards the university. It was a nice night for walking and Charles didn't want the evening to end.

"Charles, can I ask you something?"

"Given I've just had your cock in my mouth I'd say you can ask me almost anything."

"You'll have it in your mouth again if you don't stop talking like that."

"Sounds good to me."

"Stop distracting me, Xavier. I wanted to ask how you were able to get into my head so easily?"

Charles felt a twinge of guilt. "I'm sorry Erik, I should have warned you. When I have sex it's almost impossible to keep my mind completely separate from that of my partner. Your mutation makes you resistant to telepathy but, in my heightened state of arousal, I burnt right through your shields."

"But it didn't hurt."

"Of course not. I would never hurt a sexual partner, well, not unless they wanted me to."

Erik grinned, "Your sadistic side is coming out. Seriously though, usually the only way a psionic can get through my defences is if I let them. Emma can get through without my consent, but that's no fun for either of us. You just breezed on in and it certainly was fun."

Why the hell was Emma, supposedly Erik's friend, crashing through his mental barriers?

"Emma is a strong telepath but she's not omega level. Also, based on what you've just said, I assume you weren't having sex with her when she broke in?" The look of horror on Erik's face was answer enough. "Our minds were attuned because we were having sex - not always the case unfortunately - so it was easy for me to get in without you consciously dropping your shields. I apologise for . . ."

Erik interrupted him. "Don't apologise. With my views on mutant rights how could I possibly censure you for instinctively using your powers? Besides, that was one if the best orgasms I've ever had."

"Only one of the best? Next time I'll try to make it **the** best."

"So, there's going to be a next time?"

Charles almost made a flippant remark then stopped. "I hope so."

"I hope so too," said Erik, voice soft.

By this time they'd got to the point where Charles needed to turn off to head home. Erik lived in the opposite direction. They parted with a kiss, which turned into a series of kisses, then groping, then began to verge on public indecency. Finally they dragged themselves away. Charles wheeled home on a high that lasted all the next day.

Moira and Hank noticed his good mood. Hank said nothing, probably because he didn't want a retaliatory interrogation about his not-date. They'd already quizzed him but all they'd got had been "she's just a friend" and a lot of embarrassment and, oddly, guilt. Moira had no hesitation in questioning Charles. He put her off as best he could but he knew she wasn't satisfied. Quite why he didn't want to tell his best friend about a fantastic date and some epic sex he didn't know. Perhaps it was because he'd ranted at her about Erik. Perhaps he wanted to keep Erik all to himself. Perhaps it was because Erik already felt like an important part of his life even though their "relationship" consisted of two catastrophic meetings, one date and one blow-job. One terrific blow-job.

Charles got home relatively early for once. He'd just changed into some baggy sweats and a ratty t-shirt and was wondering if anything in his fridge was still edible, when his cell rang. Caller ID: Erik L.

"Hello, Charles."

"Hello, Erik. What have you been up to in the vast gulf of time since our last meeting?"

"Getting my ear chewed off by Emma. I told her all about our date, well, some of it anyway, and said I wasn't going to call you tonight as I didn't want to seem desparate. Emma called me an "emotionally constipated asshole" and virtually ordered me to phone you."

Charles laughed. "I think I'm a tiny bit in love with Ms Frost."

"You'd better not be," growled Erik. Oh! Perhaps Charles wasn't the only one to have fallen hard and fast.

"Er, anyway, I was calling to see when, er, if we could meet up again."

Yes! Gooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaal!

"Let's have a look at my diary. Wednesday afternoon?"

"That's no good for me. Friday evening?"

"Nope, got a late meeting. How about the weekend?"

"Saturday's already accounted for. How about you come over to mine on Sunday and I'll cook you dinner?"

"That sounds lovely, Erik, but how accessible is your building?"

"Ah, not very. We could meet up somewhere or I could come over to your place?"

Charles found he loved the idea of having Erik in his apartment. His apartment with its convenient bedroom. "My place is fine. Twelveish OK? That would give us most of the day for . . . whatever."

"I like the sound of "whatever". I'll see you then."

Charles spent the rest of the week longing for Sunday to come around. He cleared up the books, mugs, plates, uneaten food and paperwork which covered every surface, except the floor, in the apartment. The floor was always clear because of his wheelchair. He had his cleaner come in. He bought a huge bunch of peonies and did his best to arrange them in one of his mother's cut-glass vases. His arrangement was shit but the flowers were beautiful so, on the whole, it was a success. He didn't bother with food. Charles had no illusions about his ability to cook. They'd order out. He already had plenty of alcohol - he was his mother's son in some ways.

Sunday morning was spent trying to decide what to wear. After umpteen changes of clothing he settled on his most flattering jeans and a lilac sweater in a very fine, very soft merino. He'd had a lot of sex in that sweater. It had been dry-cleaned since, obviously. He was trying to read an article in "Nature" on the heritability and progression of schizophrenia when, bang on twelve, the doorbell rang.

Deep breath Charles, try not to act like a sex crazed idiot.

Charles opened the door.

"Hi, Charles," said Erik and leaned in for a quick kiss.

Retraining himself from jumping Erik's bones right there in the doorway, Charles said "Hello, Erik" and invited him in. He was wearing tight, dark jeans, a black shirt and an ox-blood leather jacket. Charles tried not to stare at his crotch. He'd brought a bottle of wine - decent, but not up to anything in Charles' collection - and a bouquet of white orchids.

"They're beautiful, Erik, thank you."

Erik smiled like Lucifer tempting a saint. "I thought they might trigger some, ah, happy memories."

For a moment Charles was baffled, then he remembered the huge display of white orchids at the Orchid House. Sod not acting like a sex crazed idiot. He was a sex crazed idiot where Erik was concerned. Grabbing Erik's jacket, he pulled him down for a proper kiss. Erik dropped the wine and the flowers and draped himself across Charles' lap. They bumped noses and clashed teeth before getting in sync. Erik nipped Charles' lips before exploring his mouth with his tongue. Charles rolled and flicked his tongue against Erik's. He managed to shove Erik's jacket off and ran his hands over his stupidly broad shoulders and down his long back to his absurdly small waist.

"God, you'd look superb in a corset," gasped Charles.

He got a burst of shock and arousal from Erik. "I'd wear one for you, Charles," he whispered.

Their eyes met. "Bedroom, now," said Charles, voice shaking.

Somehow they made it into the bedroom despite not wanting to take their hands off each other for a second. Charles pulled off his sweater and transferred out of the wheelchair onto the bed. Erik stood in the doorway, watching the play of muscle in Charles' shoulders, chest and arms.

"Strip," ordered Charles.

Erik started tearing his clothes off.

"No, slowly."

Erik took a couple of deep breaths, then began to slowly unbutton his shirt. He gracefully peeled it off. Without clothes, his shoulder to waist ratio was even more striking. He was all lean muscle, a runner's body. His belt had a metal buckle, so he pulled it off with his powers.

"I'll take that," said Charles.

Erik's eyes widened, then he floated the belt over to Charles. He tugged off his boots and socks, then undid his zipper without touching it and shimmied out of his jeans. He was just about to pull down his briefs when Charles told him to stop.

"Come here, Erik." God, he had to get his hands, and mouth, on him right now.

"Stand between my legs and put your hands on my shoulders."

Charles leant forward, put his hands on Erik's hips and licked his half-hard cock through his briefs, immersed in the earthy, heady smell of him. When he was done, there were two damp patches, one from Charles' spit and one from Erik's pre-come. He dragged his teeth over Erik's covered cock and gnawed gently at the sides and head. Erik shuddered and his prick hardened under Charles' touch.

"Take them off and turn around."

Obediently Erik freed his erect prick and turned round. Charles took a moment to admire his back, the dimples above his buttocks, his tight arse and his runner's legs.

"You are so lovely I can hardly bear it." A surge of nervous pride from Erik. "I want to whip you with your belt Erik, do you want that?"

Erik trembled but his voice was strong when he answered, "Yes."

"I'm going to strike you six times. If you want me to stop just tell me and I'll stop immediately. OK?"

Another strong "Yes."

Charles drew back the belt and brought it down on Erik's left buttock. Erik gasped. A perfect red welt appeared on his pale arse. Charles reached down to check his own prick through his pants. He was getting hard just from the sight of Erik and the thought of what he was going to do with him. Charles laid two more stripes on the left buttock and three on the right. Perfect symmetry. By the time he was finished, Erik was moaning and cursing. Charles pressed his lips to the hot, red lines and licked and kissed them, loving the taste of Erik's sweat.

"You can move now, darling."

Erik turned and dropped to his knees, hands on Charles' thighs - which Charles couldn't feel - and pressed his face into Charles belly. Charles stroked his hair.

"Tell me what you want, Erik."

He looked up at Charles. A drop of sweat slid down a sharp cheekbone and hung from his jaw. Charles bent and licked it up.

"I want to fuck you, Charles."

"I want you to fuck me, Erik. From the moment I saw that perfect prick, I've wanted to have it buried inside me, balls deep. I want my arse stuffed full of your massive cock."

Erik surged up, grabbed Charles by the throat and bit a long line of bruises onto his collarbone.

"Tell me what to do."

"Undress me."

Erik quickly removed Charles pants, socks and boxers. He spat in his hand and took hold of Charles' semi-erect cock, working it with those long, elegant fingers. Charles couldn't feel it, but the image was gorgeous.

"That's enough."

Charles dragged himself fully onto the bed and hauled a couple of pillows under the small of his back.

"Condoms and lube are in the top draw of the bedside table. I want you to hold my legs up as high as you can and fuck me as deep as you can. Give my prostate a real pounding."

Erik grinned. "Can I use my powers?"

"Oh, God, yes." The thought of Erik using his powers on him was a complete turn-on.

Erik stretched out his hand. A couple of metal spheres appeared as if from nowhere. They floated down to Charles' feet and, while he watched in fascination, they melted into broad bands and wrapped around his ankles. Erik gestured. The anklets slowly lifted his legs until they were vertical.

"Oh fuck, Erik, you gorgeous fucker. Prep me, prep me now, I need you inside me, now, now!"

There was that feral, manic grin again. Erik grabbed the condoms and lube and slicked his fingers. Then he paused.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Erik, get on with it," hissed Charles, mad with lust.

"Can you feel it?"

"No, but I can get off from you nailing my prostate, which you would be doing right now if you'd stop being an arse."

Erik laughed. "Come on in, Charles. Feel what I feel."

Charles didn't need a second invitation. He didn't insult him by asking if he was sure. He dived into the glorious storm that was Erik. His defences were down, not that they would have stopped Charles, not when he and Erik were both so desparate. He could feel Erik's cock, so hard it was almost painful. He felt the sting of the welts on his arse. He felt the currents of Erik's power, holding the anklets in the air and touching every piece of metal in the building, in the block. And, oh god, he felt Erik press two fingers into his hole. He was so tight, so hot, living velvet clenching around Erik's fingers as they slid deep and tapped his prostate.

He moaned and gasped and chanted Erik's name in an obscene litany. Erik worked three and then four fingers into him, twisting and scissoring them deep in Charles' hole.

"Now, Erik, now, need your cock, it's mine, need it, give it to me!"

Erik rolled on a condom, slathered lube on his prick, positioned himself and thrust in, slow and inexorable, until he hit Charles' prostate.

Charles screamed. Erik paused, pulled out, then drove in again. He kept on and on like the perfect fucking machine he was. Charles was penetrated, he was penetrating, his prostate was hammered, his cock was buried in tight heat, he was sweating, sobbing, he was coming, oh god, they were coming.

Everything whited out in pure bliss.

Someone was slapping his face and saying his name. They sounded worried in his ears and in his head.

"Could you stop that please, it's very irritating."

"Thank god, I thought I'd killed you."

That was Erik. Why would Erik think he'd killed him?

Charles opened his eyes. Erik was hovering over him, not literally, though he'd claimed he could levitate.

"You blacked out."

"Oh, right, sorry. That occasionally happens to me. Sensory overload. La petite mort the French call it, even though they don't have a word for entrepreneur."

Erik smiled. "Are you sure you're alright? You're talking nonsense."

"Bloody cheek. Just because you're too ignorant to appreciate my pearls of wit and wisdom."

"Now you're babbling."

"Fuck off," muttered Charles, but softened the blow by wrapping his arms round Erik.

He closed his eyes and relaxed in the warm glow of Erik's body and mind.

"Are you seriously going to sleep? It's only one o'clock and we haven't even eaten yet."

"Forty minutes of sleep in the early afternoon has been scientifically proven to improve performance for the rest of the day."

"I'm not sure we could improve on that performance, except . . ."

Charles felt a faint thread of worry snake through Erik's mind. He opened his eyes and looked at Erik's red, sweaty, lovely face.

"What is it, darling?"

"Well, you came, I felt it, but you didn't come, if you know what I mean."

Charles smiled. "You don't need to worry about that. I don't ejaculate. Can't ejaculate. I certainly came though, hell, I passed out it was so good."

Erik looked relieved and a bit smug.

"Now can I go to sleep?"

"Fine, I'll go put the orchids in some water."

"No you bloody well won't. You'll stay right here with me."

The last thing Charles heard before he drifted off to sleep was faint grumbling from Erik.


	9. In which there is pizza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are Easter eggs hidden in this fic. I will write a 3000 word fic for the first person to find one. Must be Cherik, but apart from that you can choose any theme or style; angst, fluff, sex, humour, dark, AU, canon, whatever. Clues are as follows:
> 
> Chapter 2: Little Britain
> 
> Chapter 3: Bladerunner
> 
> Chapter 6: Very tenuous Terry Pratchett
> 
> Good luck!

Erik didn't sleep, he rarely could during the day. Instead he lay and watched Charles. His mouth was slightly open and he snored gently. Erik admired his dark eyelashes against his pale cheek. He followed the tracery of freckles over Charles nose, shoulders and chest down to his crotch, where his uncut cock nestled in a bed of dark curls. His legs were slim, but not as wasted as Erik had expected. Erik had done a bit of reading up on spinal cord injury. Perhaps Charles did some sort of lower limb physiotherapy, like electrically stimulated cycling? He was turned slightly away from Erik, so he had a partial view of the complicated pattern of scars over his lower spine. Not quite knowing why he was doing it, Erik scooted down the bed and kissed Charles' scars.

Charles stirred.

"What are you doing down there?"

"Admiring the view."

Charles laughed and yawned. He shifted his upper half around to face Erik and manhandled his legs into position.

"I'm starved. Why don't we clean up, then order some food?"

"You mean you haven't been working your fingers to the bone cooking a feast for me?"

Another laugh-yawn. "Trust me, you wouldn't thank me for it if I had. I managed to give my sister food poisoning with a bowl of pasta. Pasta. On the grounds of safety alone we should stick to takeaway."

"Take-out it is then. Mind if I use your shower?"

"Feel free."

"Want to join me?"

Charles looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his cock.

"Very tempting, darling, but I'm hungry and, by the time you've showered, I'll be wanting to take care of certain bodily functions."

Erik nodded, pushed himself off the bed and headed for the en-suite, flicking the Vs when Charles wolf-whistled.

Charles shower was huge. There was a mostly plastic wheelchair in the corner. The cubicle had a rainwater shower-head, a series of jets set into the wall and a waterfall-type thing, which nearly drowned Erik when he accidentally turned it on. Erik would have liked to take his time but, mindful of Charles needs, made it brisk. He walked back into the bedroom stark naked except for the towel he was rubbing his hair with. 

Charles groaned.

"If I didn't want pizza so much I'd pin you to the bed and dirty you up all over again."

"There'll be plenty of time for that once we've eaten. Who knows, we might even manage to fit in a coversation."

"Waste of time when we could be fucking but, if you insist on being civilised, I'll go with it. There are some menus on the kitchen table. Would you be a star and order me an extra-thin Venetian, with extra mozzarella and a green salad, oh, and chips, I mean fries. I've got various beers in."

"Yes sir," said Erik and saluted. Charles blew him a raspberry and started to get into position to lever himself into his chair. Erik felt a powerful urge to help but knew Charles didn't need it and wouldn't want it. He pulled on his clothes, enjoying the gun-show as Charles transferred to the wheelchair.

He wandered out through the enormous living room - furnished with an eclectic mix of IKEA, shabby bits and pieces that would have been rejected by a thrift shop and expensive looking antiques - and into the equally enormous kitchen. The kitchen had every gadget you could possibly want and looked almost totally unused, with the exception of the microwave. Erik summoned his jacket, still lying on the floor near the door, using the metal of the zip. He got out his cell, found the pizza menu and ordered. He picked up the orchids and the bottle of wine from the floor. The orchids still looked OK so he put them in a convenient vase on the granite worktop. He got out plates (after searching through a multitude of cabinets) and cutlery (easy to find of course) and set the kitchen table. He'd considered the huge mahogany dining table between the kitchen and the seating area but decided it seemed too formal. He was imagining all the meals he could create in Charles' superbly equipped kitchen when the man himself wheeled out of the bedroom.

"Very civilised. I usually sit on the sofa and eat out of the box."

"Peasant," said Erik, putting on his best imitation of Charles accent.

"Watch it or you won't get any beer."

He wheeled over to the fridge and got out a couple of Peronis.

"These OK?"

"Sure."

They sat at the table sipping their beers. Charles noticed the orchids and smiled.

"Thanks again for the flowers and the wine."

"You should thank my mama, not me. She taught me a good dinner guest should always bring a gift. In fact she'd probably tell me off for not bringing any food."

"Do you look like her?"

Erik shook his head. "We're not really very alike, though we have the same eyes. I'm more like my father. She's small and slim and, before her hair went grey, dark. She's the best person I know. I was nine when papa died and she had to take responsibility for everything. She worked three jobs but, somehow, always managed to find time for me. When I manifested she had to cope with my powers going haywire every few weeks and frying various household appliances."

He liked talking about his mother and there was something particularly satisfying in telling Charles about her.

"I got into a lot of trouble as a teenager, always getting into fights because someone had called me a mutie or a fag or both. She'd get called into school and have to listen while the principal told her what a delinquent her son was. She'd do her best to defend me, polite but not taking any shit. Then she'd take me home and tend to my wounds and run her fingers through my hair and whisper "alles ist gut" and for a moment I'd believe it. Didn't stop me from joyriding with a bunch of assholes who were willing to put up with a mutie freak so long as I stole cars for them. We got caught of course. The look on her face when she came to bail me out, not angry, just so sad. She was the only reason I stayed out of juvie."

He didn't tell Charles that the judge let him off because Edie scrimped and saved enough money to get him into the Shaw Program. He never blamed her. She did it out of love, because she wanted to save him and, after the truth came out, she never quite forgave herself.

"She sounds like a lovely person and a strong woman," said Charles, eyes suspiciously bright.

"She is. She's a great cook too, taught me everything I know. Oh, and, though she's an absolute sweetheart, sometimes she comes out with these really acerbic one-liners, real killers. Now I've settled in at Columbia, I'm planning a trip back home to  
Pittsburg to surprise her, she'll love that."

"Pittsburg? So, Carnegie Mellon is your home-town uni?"

"Yes. CMU was . . ."

Charles never got to find out what CMU was because, at that point, the doorbell rang. A minute later they were sitting at the kitchen table devouring their pizzas like starving men. Fifteen minutes later the pizzas and fries were gone, the cutlery hadn't been touched, Charles' lilac sweater had gained a stripe of tomato sauce and they were picking desultorily at the green salad. Charles leaned back in his chair and burped. Erik laughed.

"Your manners don't match your accent."

"Sorry. It's a reaction to having the rules of etiquette shoved down my throat by my mother for years and years. Raven and I used to deliberately belch and fart at the dinner table, then pretend it was accidental and act as if we were mortified. It absolutely infuriated mother."

"Raven?"

"My sister. Ah, now where did I leave my phone?"

"Let me," said Erik, focusing his powers.

Cell phones felt very distinctive to him. Aluminium, copper, gold, silver, palladium, platinum and those minuscule traces of rare earth metals. There it was, under a sofa cushion. Erik floated it neatly into Charles' hand.

"Well, aren't you incredibly convenient to have around. Now, where are those photos? Yes, here we go, Raven in all her glory."

The young woman in the picture, wearing a white halter-neck dress, laughing and striking a pose, was covered in cobalt blue scales. They flowed over her curves in an elegant symmetry. Her eyes were golden and her hair a brilliant red.

Erik's eyes widened. "She's amazing, Charles, just amazing."

Charles looked delighted by his response. "That's not all, look at these."

The next photo showed the same woman, but her skin was fair, her eyes blue and her hair blonde. She was pretty enough but couldn't compare to the glorious creature in the previous picture.

"Is that her alternate form?"

"Oh, it's much better than that."

Photo number three showed two Charles Xaviers sitting side by side, both pulling mock serious faces. Photo number four had Charles embracing the Queen of England, who was drinking some kind of multi-coloured cocktail and wearing a gay pride badge.

"Incredible isn't she? She can mimic anyone. When she was little she could only do someone's appearance, clothes included. Now, with a few minutes observation, she can do their voice, mannerisms, the way they move, everything. She's very fast too and very strong. Her body density is higher than the norm. Raven's about the same height as me, 5'7", but she weighs about half as much again."

Erik suddenly realised why her blonde form was familiar. She was the girl at Charles' side in so many of the photos taken after his accident.

"Is she married?"

"What? No. You'd better not be thinking of proposing."

Erik laughed and pulled Charles into a sloppy kiss. "I swear I don't have designs on your sister. It's just that she has a different name doesn't she? According to the internet anyway."

"Stalker," said Charles and nipped his ear. "Yes, she's Raven Darkholme. She's adopted but wanted to keep her birth name. God knows why since her parents abandoned her. I was twelve when I caught her in the kitchen, stealing food and pretending to be my mother. It was love at first sight for me when she changed into her true form. I hid her in the house - for house read mansion - for several weeks until a member of staff caught her and hauled her in front of mother.

Charles paused, lost in reverie.

"I could hear her crying out for me in her head. I sprinted down to Sharon's sitting room and there she was, standing in front of mother, looking so small and so scared. Mother was about to call the police. I couldn't lose her Erik, I couldn't, so I changed Sharon's mind. I'd never done it before, I didn't even know I could, I just dived in and convinced her that she wanted to adopt this little girl. I had no idea what I was doing and it's a miracle I didn't do permanent damage, but it worked. I ended up in bed with a migraine for a week, overextended myself you see, but it was worth it. I'd been so lonely and suddenly I had this wonderful little sister for a friend. She was, is, brave and funny and imaginative. We roamed the house and the grounds and we roamed each other's thoughts, inseperable."

He stopped. Erik watched his expression harden slightly.

"Things change. She wanted her privacy. Kurt and Cain intruded on our idyll. I had my accident. Lately all we do is argue."

"About what?"

Charles sighed. "Everything and nothing." He brightened a little. "She's still my favourite person in the world and I'd love you to meet her. Unless you feel that's moving a bit fast, meeting the family and all that?"

Erik almost said that things couldn't move too fast for him and he'd already been wondering when he could introduce Charles to his mother, but he played it cool instead.

"No, that'd be fine and I'm always happy to meet a fellow mutant."

Charles brightened still further.

"Excellent. Well, I don't know about you but, after all that soul baring, I'm in the mood for some arse baring. How about you?"

Erik choked on the arugula leaf he'd been chewing.

"You are a disgrace, Xavier."

"I know. I think I need to be punished."

"I couldn't agree more. Bedroom?"

"Bedroom."

They stripped in double quick time. Erik waited for Charles to get onto the bed, then draped himself over him, face to face, bodies pressed together at chest, belly, groin and legs. He rubbed himself over Charles, his powerfully muscled torso, his boyishly slim legs. He felt him slide into his mind. It was like the first day of sunshine in spring or walking into a bright room with a log-fire on a chill winter's evening. Yet Charles could burn brighter than a thousand suns. He could burn hotter than a nuclear furnace. All that power, quiescent under Erik's body.

"Yes, I'm yours Erik, do anything you want, anything," whispered Charles.

Erik sat up and reached out mentally for the brass bedhead. Snakes of golden metal started peeling away and flowing down towards Charles. Bands of gold encircled his wrists and forearms and pulled them up over his head.

"So that's where those anklets came from," he muttered, looking dazed.

Erik gazed down on him. "You look like some prince's plaything. Some beautiful boy, bathed and perfumed and bejewelled and deposited in his master's bed."

"Use me, master."

Erik's cock twitched. He twined metal around Charles' throat and gently sqeezed. Charles moaned and his cock began to harden. He trailed golden curlicues around cherry red nipples to pinch and tug and twist. He leant down and kissed Charles' open, gasping mouth, then kissed his way across his cheek to his ear. He licked and sucked his earlobe, then bit down, hard. Charles struggled in his bonds but his mind shouted "Yes!" Erik sat up and dragged his fingernails down his sides and across his pale belly, leaving thin red trails. He took a moment to admire his work. His own cock was hard and leaking. Charles' was almost fully erect. Erik dug his nails into his balls and scraped them up his cock, working his little finger nail into Charles slit. Blue eyes followed his every move, pupils dilated with arousal.

"Do you want more, Charles?"

"Yes, yes, yes . . ." His voice was a throaty whisper, but the voice in Erik's head was a ringing demand.

He sent a thick tendril of gold down Charles' chest, dipping into his belly button and following the trail of dark hairs to his prick. The tendril divided at his cock, half spiralling up to wrap his prick in shining metal, half disappearing under his balls to caress his perineum. Erik grabbed the lube and coated the metal under Charles' ass, then slid it into him, filling him completely.

Charles went quite still, eyes wide open, then tremors began to shake his body and he started to gasp for air. Erik felt the trembling in his own body and his own breathing began to ratchet up. He knew he couldn't last much longer, feeling every piece of metal on and in Charles' body, feeling Charles' sensations and getting his own reflected back at him. He sent his powers surging into the metal, alternating between heating and cooling it, then making it pulse faster and faster until it was vibrating. Charles eyes rolled back in his head. Erik fisted his prick and tugged roughly on himself. He felt Charles come, then he was coming, striping Charles belly and chest with pale lines.

Erik collapsed on top of Charles, who seemed to be completely out of it. All he could hear was their breathing and his own pulse. The room stank of sweat and come, most of which he was lying in. Gradually his breathing and heartbeat slowed. Charles shifted under Erik.

"You're heavy, get off."

Erik gave him a quick kiss then rolled off.

Charles opened one eye, stared at him blearily and said, "I hope you're going to leave my bedstead as you found it."


	10. In which they zoom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra clues for the Easter eggs / 3000 word fic prize thing.
> 
> Chapter 2: Little Britain - this is the catchphrase of a very closeted character, used when someone comments on his gayness. Charles says it.
> 
> Chapter 3: Bladerunner - Emma's thoughts about Erik are similar to Tyrell's words to Roy.
> 
> Chapter 6: Terry Pratchett - relates to his 34th Discworld novel, comes right at the end of the chapter.

Erik sat in Full-O-Beanz looking out of the window and waiting for Charles, who was late as usual. The cherry trees had finished flowering months ago and the big catalpa had taken over. It was covered in voluptuous, white, foxglove flowers, so abundant they almost hid the heart shaped leaves.

Erik was wondering what to get Charles for their three month anniverary. He paused halfway though a sip of espresso; Charles had turned him into the kind of man who celebrated three month anniversaries. Charles was the reason he knew the big white and green thing outside was a catalpa - "It's also known as the Indian bean tree, Erik." He had a bit of a thing about trees. Perhaps he could buy him a tree? His apartment was certainly large enough to take a decent sized sapling. No, that would be over the top, plus Charles didn't have any house plants as he tended to kill them through neglect. A bonsai perhaps? Not one of those ancient, hugely expensive ones, but one of those cheap little ones sold in IKEA. It wouldn't matter if he killed it. Yes, the perfect not-over-the-top present. Erik felt rather proud of himself.

He didn't expect Charles to remember they'd been together for a quarter of a year or to get him anything. Charles looked like a romantic hero, especially now his hair was growing out, but he hadn't a romantic bone in his body, Erik, who people thought would rather cut off his hand than make a romantic gesture, was a secret softie. Charles would probably feel guilty for not remembering and not getting Erik anything. He decided to give him the bonsai as a random gift to spare his feelings.

God, he was falling as hard and fast for Charles as he had for Magda. It felt different though. The thing with Magda had been a fantasy, the dream of a perfect life with a perfect wife and perfect children. What he had with Charles was better than perfect, it was real. He certainly didn't think Charles was perfect. His perpetual lateness, for example, that was irritating. His habit of leaving mouldy mugs and plates of decaying food around his apartment was disgusting. Thank god the cleaner came every week. They both worked long hours and didn't get to spend as much time together as Erik would have liked. When they were together, Charles wasted half the time sleeping. He needed a ridiculous amount of sleep. Oh, and he was much too easygoing with his students and let them take advantage.

Then there was the arguing. He'd seldom argued with Magda. He and Charles argued almost as much as they fucked and they fucked a lot. They fought over the Isreali-Palestinian conflict, legal protest versus civil disobedience, the necessity of specific hate-crime legislation, the value of suppressants for mutants who couldn't control their powers and, of course, separatism vs. integration.

Erik vividly remembered one fight where he'd been arguing for a separate mutant nation state and Charles had sneered:

"What don't we all go live on an asteroid? We could call it Asteroid M for mutant."

"Oh, very fucking funny. We need our own country just as much as the Jewish people need Isreal!"

"For fucks sake, Erik, stop using your Jewishness as a kind of get-out-of-jail-free card."

Erik had to leave to avoid punching Charles in the face. He came back after he'd walked off some of his rage. The hate sex was amazing. The make up sex a few days later was even better, each of them being incredibly tender and careful with the other.

Something familiar pinged his metal sense. Charles' wheelchair and his battered but expensive watch.

"So sorry I'm late, but Hank spotted this rather interesting outlier and . . ."

Erik interrupted him. "Save it, Xavier. Go buy me a plain bagel with cream cheese and lox and another coffee."

Charles gave him a smacker of a kiss and went to order lunch. Over bagels they chatted about work, then the conversation turned to Edie's redecoration of her guest bedroom.

"Purple and magenta, Charles, purple and magenta. Why would she choose purple and magenta? How could she think those colours would go together? I'll have to sleep there when I visit, that's if I can sleep at all with those colours on the walls."

"You never know, you might get to like it."

"You'd better hope you get to like it since you'll be sharing with me."

"Oh, do I get to visit?"

"Of course. After everything I've told her she can't wait to meet you. She'll spoil you to death."

Charles smiled a little nervously. "I hope she likes me."

Erik took his hand. "She'll love you, how could she not?"

"Quite easily I imagine. I piss you off all the time. My own mother certainly couldn't care less about me so why should your's?"

Erik rubbed his nose on Charles cheek. "My mama is much sweeter tempered then I am. Everyone pisses me off so don't you go feeling special. As for your mother, from what you've told me, she couldn't care less about anyone."

Charle buried his face in Erik's neck and muttered something unintelligible. Erik felt a flicker of nervousness, melancholy and affection that was not his own. Since they'd discovered that Charles could slip through Erik's defences like an eel through water, Erik had given him carte blanche to come and go as he pleased, provided he didn't go digging around. Erik rubbed his chin over Charles' citrus shampoo scented hair. Charles pulled back.

"Speaking of family visits, Raven is coming over this Sunday. Do you still want to come to mine?"

"Of course, I like Raven, that's unless you want to have her all to yourself?"

Charles shook his head and a tinge of his apprehension coloured their thoughts. Erik had met Raven several times now. Charles and his sister had made up after their latest disagreement, but it was an uneasy truce. They tiptoed round each other, keeping everything light and cheerful, jokey and affectionate, trying hard to be normal. Erik liked Raven, he admired her forthrightness, her "mutant and proud" stance and her ambition. It seemed to him that Charles still saw her as a teenager, not the competent young woman she'd become. He loved her dearly but couldn't accept she no longer needed his protection and advice.

"I'll cook her something nice. Does she like pot roast?"

"She loves pot roast, but there's no need to go to so much trouble, she loves take-out too."

Erik scoffed. "Take-out, schmake-out. It's no trouble, I like to cook, especially in your kitchen. I'll do my mother's recipe."

"Sometimes you are so perfect I think you must be a figment of my imagination. Then you start droning on about separatism and I'm rapidly disillusioned."

"Fuck you, you arrogant prick," said Erik, trying not to laugh.

"Yes please, darling, but I'm afraid I have to go back to work now."

"Life sciences building?" Charles nodded. "Me too."

They set out across the campus. The weather was perfect for mid-summer. Hot, but not too hot, with a cooling breeze. Charles had rolled up his sleeves. Erik admired his freckled forearms and the way his biceps moved as he propelled his chair. He could get quite a speed up.

"Slow down, you're going too fast for me to keep up unless I run and I can't run in these shoes."

"It's a pity I can't give you a backie like Moira."

Erik was not jealous of Moira, no, not at all. "Why can't you give me a backie?"

"Slender as you are, you're all muscle, so you're too heavy," said Charles, regretfully.

Erik had a brilliant idea.

"I've had a brilliant idea. Why don't I use my powers to lift your chair?"

"Even you must realise that levitating two grown men and a wheelchair is a gross violation of the campus low-level-power-use-only rule."

"That's a stupid, discriminatory rule. Anyway, I didn't mean I'd levitate us, I'd take just enough weight for you to be able to wheel us."

Charles grinned. "That is a brilliant idea. You're not so green as you're cabbage looking."

"I have no idea what the fuck that means. Are we going to ride or are we going to ride?"

Charles laughed. "Ride or die, baby, ride or die. OK, hop on."

Erik climbed up onto the back of the wheelchair, feet on the lower cross bracing, hands on Charles' shoulders. He sank his powers into the metal and lifted just enough to take his own weight and a bit of Charles', while keeping the wheels on the ground.

"That's amazing, Erik, your powers are amazing," said Charles, ultra enthusiastic about any demonstration of mutant powers.

Erik scoffed. "I could destroy half the city, this is nothing."

"I love the way your thoughts automatically turn to destruction. Let's go."

Charles pushed off. Erik concentrated on lightening the load but keeping the wheels in contact with the pavement. He felt Charles' muscles contract and release under his hands. They went faster and faster, the wind whipping through their hair. People stared as they sped by. Erik laughed, feeling like a wild child, not a responsible thirty-eight year old metallurgist. He took his hands off Charles' shoulders, held his arms aloft and yelled:

"Top of the world, ma, top of the world!"

Charles whooped and shouted, "Faster, faster!"

Erik gave the wheelchair a push with his powers. That was when everything went horribly wrong. Erik's push conflicted with Charles' wheeling. Charles tried to brake but they were going too fast and all it did was send them careering off the path toward a tree. Erik brought the chair to an abrupt halt. Too abrupt. Charles flew out of the chair. Erik flew over the top and somehow ended up sitting in the chair. The chair crashed into the tree.

Everything went quiet. Charles lay face down in a rose bush. Erik sat in the chair dazedly staring at the tree trunk.

"Charles? Charles? Are you alright, Charles?"

Oh fuck, he'd killed Charles, he'd killed the love of his life.

I'm not dead you cretin, I'm in a fucking rose bush and it's covered in fucking thorns. Come and get me out right now.

Erik was overcome by an overwhelming sense of relief. He staggered out of the chair. He had a massive scrape down the front of his left leg. He could feel a slow trickle of blood from his hairline. He limped over to Charles who was trying, unsuccessfully, to extricate himself from the clutches of the rose. Several people were running over, obviously intending to help. Charles looked up, frowned, and they all turned round and walked away.

God, Charles' powers were such a turn on.

Really, Erik? Is this really the ideal time to purve on me?

"Shut up and keep still," said Erik, hiding his shakiness with rudeness.

He untangled a constantly swearing Charles - see if I ever listen to you again, brilliant fucking idea my arse \- pulled the somewhat battered wheelchair over with his powers and very gently lifted Charles into it. He was pretty much unhurt except for a lot of bruising and a myriad thorn scratches.

Erik stood in silence looking down at Charles.

Charles sat in silence looking up at Erik. His mouth curved into a slow, sweet smile.

"So, I'm the love of your life?"

Erik smiled back a bit shakily. He fought a ridiculous urge to get down on one knee and propose. He bent to press his lips to Charles'. The love of his life wound his fingers into his hair and broadcast love, desire and joy.

"Really boys, you're not teenagers any more. You don't have to hide in the bushes when you want to make out."

They jerked apart. There she was, in all her gleaming white glory, smiling like a serial killer.

Fucking Frost.


	11. In which there is Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit angsty.

Raven didn't know quite what to think about Charles and Erik. It wasn't that she didn't like Erik. She did. She thought he was great; smart, dry sense of humour, separatist, able to stand up to Charles, not to mention so handsome it made your eyes hurt. He didn't talk down to her just because she hadn't been to college. He was full of praise for her work with Mutants Against Discrimination (MAD). She just didn't get why he was with Charles.

Charles had a lot going for him admittedly, but he and Erik seemed to disagree on pretty much everything. Plus, her brother was an arrogant bastard and Erik didn't seem the kind of guy who would put up with his bullshit. They were so different, Raven didn't see how it could work. She kept expecting a tearful, furious, drunk phone call from Charies, telling her they'd split up.

She stood under the giant plane tree that grew outside Charles' brownstone and picked at its peeling bark. How would Charles take her news? Surely he'd be glad? Since he'd hooked up with Erik, he was always going on about soulmates and true love. Jesus, you'd think he was a teenage girl, not a thirty-one year old man. He'd probably be pissed she hadn't told him sooner. He wouldn't understand that she'd just wanted something for herself, something that was nothing to do with the Xaviers, nothing to do with her high-achieving brother and not subject to his approval or disapproval. That was a joke, considering who she was dating.

Raven sighed and walked over to the building. She pressed the intercom and Charles buzzed her in, exclaiming "Raven!" as though her visit was totally unexpected. As the lift went up, she rehearsed how she'd tell him. Charles greeted her with a hug and said:

"Looking lovely, as always."

She was wearing a sunshine-yellow sleeveless shirt-dress which contrasted spectacularly with her bright blue skin. She'd morphed her brilliant red hair into a pixie cut. She knew she looked good but, somehow, Charles' praise rankled, perhaps because of all those years he'd persuaded her to hide her true form. She'd believed he'd thought her ugly. It had taken years, and a series of fraught confrontations, before he'd admitted he was scared for her. He'd been afraid of how people might react, afraid she'd be insulted, maybe even assaulted. He'd been afraid he couldn't protect her. Typical fucking Charles, wanting to appear perfect, to be the fearless big brother, unable to admit weakness. Things had been a bit better between them after his confession. Then the accident had happened.

"Hi Raven," called Erik, giving her a grin and a wave. He was working away in the kitchen, various metal implements moving without being touched. Delicious smells wafted over.

"You look like something from "Beauty and the Beast", all the silverware dancing round the place."

Erik looked blank. Charles laughed. She handed him the box of Jacques Torres chocolates and the bottle of Hendrick's Gin she'd brought.

"Sugar and alcohol, you know my tastes so well," he said, smiling.

She smiled back, feeling a sudden swell of warmth for him. For all she sometimes hated him, she loved him fiercely too.

"I'm going to break open that gin. What do you want?"

"We having wine with dinner?" Charles nodded. "Red?" Another nod. "Guess I'll have red wine then."

Charles poured her a glass of wine and a gin and tonic for himself. Erik already had a full glass sitting on the worktop.

She flopped onto the sofa. Charles levered himself out of his wheelchair and sat down beside her. His graceful, confident transfer from the chair to the sofa was such a contrast to the immediate aftermath of the accident. He'd been so broken, so helpless and full of rage and despair. She had been at his side constantly; listening when he needed to talk, silent when he needed silence, gentle when he was fragile and forceful when he needed a kick up the ass. They'd recaptured some of the closeness they'd had as children, before he became overbearing and she locked him out of her head. As he'd got better, things started to change. He'd put on his old, arrogant front; he didn't need anyone's help, he didn't need her help, he didn't want her help, he could do everything himself. She'd understood his desire for independence, hell, she'd felt that need for half her life, so she tried to get him to understand it was OK to accept help, it didn't make him weak.

"I don't want your pity," he'd snapped.

"This isn't pity, this is love."

"Well, it sure as hell feels like fucking pity."

Stung, she'd shot back, "If you can't tell the difference between pity and love, it's not just your spine that's crippling you."

They hadn't spoken for two months after that.

Recalled to the present by Charles asking after her work at MAD, she told him about the mutant theatre group they were supporting.

"I went to one of their workshops. It was great. Everybody was encouraged to use their mutations in their performances, not just as an add on, but as an integral part of their roles. I really went for it. I haven't done so many changes since I emptied Sharon's stash of vodka. I felt, oh, I don't know, as if I'd come home, like this was what I should be doing. The director came up to me afterwards and said she'd love me to perform with them. I said I was just an amateur, but she insisted I take her number."

"You must have been good," called Erik, from the kitchen.

Charles frowned. "You're not seriously thinking of taking her up on her offer?"

Raven felt her teeth clench. "Why not?"

"I admit I was doubtful about the job with MAD, but it turned out to be good for you. You have a real future there. A chance to work your way up the ladder. Acting is an incredibly insecure profession. Even good actors are out of work more often then not."

She could feel the tension building in her shoulders. "I'm not stupid Charles. I know perfectly well how difficult a career in the performing arts can be."

"I didn't say you were stupid, I just think you shouldn't quit a good job on a whim."

"Don't talk to me like I'm some kid wanting to run away to the circus. It's not a whim. You know very well I've always wanted a career in the arts, but I never found my niche."

Charles put on his concerned face. "How can you be sure you've found it now?"

"I can't, but I'll never know if I don't try."

"You're not a teenager anymore," began Charles.

Raven interrupted him, "So don't fucking treat me like one!"

Silence. Charles looked hurt and angry. Raven wondered why the fuck she'd expected him to feel happy for her. She should have known better. And she hadn't even told him about her love life yet.

"It's Raven's decision to make, Charles. No matter what she decides, surely you'll support her?"

Erik had come out of the kitchen and was standing behind the sofa. Charles looked up at him. By the look of things, they were having a mental conversation. Charles flinched slightly, then turned back to her.

"I'm sorry, Raven. I worry for you, I can't help it, and I tend to express my concern through criticism. Whatever you decide, even if I don't agree with it, I'll back you all the way."

He held out his hand. She hesitated, then reached out to him.

"I don't need saving, Charles."

He squeezed her hand.

"I know, I know. Sorry for being such an arsehole."

She squeezed back.

"Jesus, Raven, no need to break my fingers," he yelped.

She grinned. "Just proving I can take care of myself."

"Point taken." He flexed his fingers, winced, then grinned back at her.

"When did you get so badass?"

"Always have been, Xavier, always have been."

"I hope you two have finished your touching reconciliation because dinner is on the table and you need to get your asses over here now," said Erik.

They both laughed, a little too loudly, and headed for the table. Charles had broken out all the best china and silverware and the lead-crystal glasses. There was a bouquet of yellow roses in what looked like one of Sharon's best vases. The food smelled fantastic. Erik served up. The pot roast was melt-in-the-mouth delicious. The veg were cooked just right and there was a potato dish to die for.

"OMG, Erik," gasped Raven, "What did you put in the pot roast to make it taste so awesome?"

"It's my mother's secret recipe. If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Well, I'd die happy."

"It's the potatoes that do it for me," moaned Charles, making his usual porn-star noises.

Everyone had seconds. Raven noticed that Erik hadn't finished his first glass of wine, while she and Charles had put away the best part of two bottles. Charles had used to be quite a drinker. Fear of ending up like Sharon and the unremitting regimen of paraplegia had put a stop to that. He didn't have the tolerance he'd once had, so was looking a bit drunk already. Guess she wasn't the only one who was nervous about this dinner. Erik brought out the dessert.

"Chocolate and pear charlotte."

Raven had thought she was full but discovered she was still able to demolish a huge slice of heavenly cake. Charles insisted on serving a dessert wine. Erik wouldn't have any - "too sweet" - but Raven loved it.

"You don't know what you're missing, Lehnsherr. Pour me another, Charles."

Charles knocked back his glass and poured another for both of them.

"Good girl, you ignore old misery guts over there." Erik threw a dish towel at him. "Assaulted with my own tea towel. You see what I have to put in with?"

His face was flushed and his voice a bit slurred. When they transferred to the seating area his wheeling was a little clumsy. Raven was feeling somewhat unsteady herself. She lay down on one sofa, Charles lay on the other with his head in Erik's lap. Charles told her about The Great Wheelchair Crash which made her choke with laughter. He showed her the most accessible of his bruises and Erik rolled up his pants leg and proudly displayed a long scrape from knee to ankle.

Erik covered up his scars and said, "The worst thing wasn't the crash, it was fucking Frost turning up to gloat over us."

"She actually brought it up in a meeting I was at. Said the rules about safe driving and cycling on campus should be extended to wheelchairs. She looked straight at me when she said it. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry," said Charles.

Raven giggled helplessly. Charles giggled too. Erik looked mildly amused. Now seemed like a good time to tell Charles her news.

"So, Charles, you're not the only one with a new boyfriend."

"Erik's no longer new, he's only newish and way too old to be called a boyfriend." Erik tugged Charles' hair. "Stop it you brute. Anyway, let's have the goss, who's got a new boyfriend?"

"Me."

Charles pulled himself upright. "You?" She nodded. "Oh, Raven, that's wonderful. Who is he? Anyone I know?"

"It's Hank."

"Hank who?"

Here goes, thought Raven. "Hank McCoy."

Charles stared at her as though she'd sprouted a second head (she knew someone with that mutation).

"Hank McCoy? My Hank McCoy? My TA who's working on the mutant genome project with me?"

"Yep."

Charles still looked baffled. "I know you met him at that life sciences do I dragged you to. When did you start going out with him?"

Raven took a deep breath. "Just after that."

"So you've been going out with him longer than I've been going out with Erik?"

"Yep."

He frowned. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't Hank tell me?"

"I asked him not to."

Realisation dawned on Charles' face. "You were his not-date. You were the reason he felt guilty around me. Why did you ask him not to tell me? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because none of my boyfriends have ever been good enough for me according to you and I really like Hank, I mean really, really like him and I didn't want you disapproving or even approving but interfering the way you do, I just wanted it to be the two of us, not the two of us plus you," she blurted out. 

There was that look of mingled hurt and anger again.

"Whatever I may think of your past boyfriends, Hank is a lovely person. Of course I don't disapprove of him and of course I wouldn't interfere. Except, well, he's not exactly dynamic though, is he? You're so full of life and energy. He's a thinker and you're much more of a doer. Not very gregarious either, a bit of a loner. You're always surrounded by friends. It's just, the two of you are so very different, I can't quite imagine you together."

Raven surged up, swaying slightly.

"And you wonder why I didn't tell you. You say you don't disapprove of him, you won't interfere and then list all the reasons why he's not right for me. Fuck you, Charles. Fuck you! FUCK YOU!"

Charles looked drunk and furious. Raven could feel his anger in the air, oppressive as an oncoming thunderstorm. She was pretty fucking furious herself and morphed into a taller, more muscular form almost without realising it.

"Fuck you too, Raven, fuck you too! I'm sick of this, having to watch everything I say around you in case you go off like a grenade. I'm sick of having my words and actions misinterpreted and misunderstood and - "

Erik interrupted. "Charles, you need to - "

"No, I don't need to calm down! Why am I always the one who has to calm down, who has to apologise and be reasonable? Fuck this, I'm having another bottle of wine."

He transferred into his wheelchair, almost ending up on the floor, and headed for the wine cellar.

Erik stood up. He looked equal parts concerned and pissed off.

"Charles, I don't think that's a - "

"Yes it is a good idea, fuck you very much," he yelled and disappeared into the wine cellar.

"Who even has a wine cellar?" Raven shouted after him. "Who even has a temperature and humidity controlled room for their wine to live in? How is it even a fucking cellar when it's not in the fucking basement?"

They stood there in silence. Raven noticed the cutlery was jingling slightly. That would be Erik. She looked at him, at his worried, annoyed face.

"How do you even stand him?"

He sighed. "It's not like this with us, Raven. We fight, we fight like crazy, but we don't have the history you and he have. There's anger, but no resentment."

He walked over and put his hand on her shoulder.

"I wish I could help the two of you to see each other more clearly."

"Oh, I see him fucking clearly alright."

That made him laugh. She laughed too, shaky and brittle. She suddenly felt a desperate need for Hank. He'd hug her in that awkward way of his and kiss her so softly and clumsily try to comfort her. Raven gave a choked off sob and leant against Erik. Since Hank wasn't here, Erik would have to do. He hesitated, then put his arms round her. He felt very solid and smelt of cooking and cologne, with a faint, not unpleasant, hint of sweat. She pressed her face into his chest and he muttered soothing things in what sounded like German.

She drew back a little and looked up at him. He gave her a wry smile and bent to kiss her cheek. Something cruel and petty stirred in her, something that wanted to steal a precious, private moment from Charles. She turned her head so Erik's lips met hers and grabbed his hair, using her strength to keep them connected.

As soon as she'd done it she realised it was a massive mistake. She released him, saw the look on his face, stepped back and was about to apologise when there was a crash. They both turned towards the source of the noise. Charles sat there, a look of absolute shock on his face. A smashed wine bottle bled red onto the floorboards beside his chair. As they stared at him, shock changed to betrayal.

"Charles," began Raven and Erik in unison.

Before they could get any further, Erik grabbed his head with both hands and fell to his knees, face twisted in a rictus of pain. Raven stood frozen with shock for a moment, then leapt towards Charles and slapped him across the face, not as hard as she could because that would probably have broken his cheekbone, but still pretty damn hard. Charles' head jerked to one side. He put his hand up to his cheek and gazed at her with a stunned expression. Erik hauled himself off the floor and sank onto the sofa.

Raven stood there looking down at Charles. The big brother who couldn't see that she didn't need a big brother anymore. But just because she didn't need a big brother, it didn't mean she didn't want one. Not to tell her what to do, to judge, to interfere, to offer unwanted and unneeded protection, but to be her friend, her equal. Looking into his eyes, feeling the shame and pain and remorse he was broadcasting, she felt the anger drain away. All she felt was tired.

She knelt in front of his wheelchair and put her hands on top of his.

She spoke softly, "You say you're sick of this, sick of being misunderstood. Well, so am I."

He gripped her hands tightly.

She paused. Did she really want to do this? Yes, yes she did.

"I'm going to ask you to do something you haven't done in well over a decade. I want you to look inside my head."

He gasped and his grip tightened painfully.

"Raven, are you sure? I don't want you to do this just because I've forced you into a position where you've no other options."

She managed a weak smile and said, "Still think you know my own mind better than I do?"

He shook his head.

"Then come on in."

He leant forward slightly, blue eyes focusing intently on her face, and then she felt it. God, she'd almost forgotten what it was like. The warmth, the brightness, the rightness of having him in her head. They'd spent years like this, entwined in one another. His touch was so gentle and hesitant. She pushed her memories of the two of them to the front of her mind, just as he'd taught her to so many years ago. She held nothing back, she gave him everything; the good, the bad, the love, the hate, the anger, the frustration, the hope. And he gave her the same in return, complete candour.

She felt the tendrils of his presence withdraw. There were tears streaming down his face. She realised her own cheeks were wet.

"Raven," he said brokenly and pulled her into his arms.

She went willingly.

After a lot of hugging and crying and apologising, they eventually settled on the sofa, arms wrapped around each other. Erik made coffee then sat down beside Charles.

"I think I owe you an apology, Erik," said Charles, shamefaced.

Erik gave him a stern look. "Yes, you do. We'll talk later."

Charles nodded meekly.

"I think I owe you an apology too," said Raven, feeling her cheeks darken to navy blue in embarrassment.

"Apology accepted but don't ever do anything like that again."

"I won't," said Raven, as meek as Charles.

Erik looked at them, expression inscrutable. One corner of his mouth quirked up.

"You Xavier-Darkholmes certainly know how to throw a dinner party."


	12. In which we come to the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answers to Easter eggs:
> 
> Chapter 2 - when Moira criticises Charles' gloves he says "How very dare you", the catchphrase of a character in Little Britain, a U.K. comedy sketch show.
> 
> Chapter 3 - Emma thinks of Erik, "He always shone so very brightly". In Bladerunner, Tyrell says to Roy, " . . . you have burned so very, very brightly . . . "
> 
> Chapter 6 - right at the end Emma says "I'm diamond". In Terry Pratchett's Discworld novel Thud!, there is a character called Mr Shine, Diamond King of Trolls. He is referred to as "him diamond".
> 
> **There is still a chance to win a 3000 word fic on any Cherik subject you choose. Spot the Casablanca quote near the beginning of this chapter and comment me!**
> 
> NOTE: The fic has been won by IreneADonovan. Hoorah for Irene!

**Moira**

Moira got to her feet and tapped her knife on her glass until everyone shut up.

"Tonight we are celebrating three things; Raven joining the "Let Your Freak Flag Fly" theater company, Erik moving in with Charles and, last but not least, the publishing of our paper on regulatory DNA sequences. It behooves me - "

Catcalls from her audience, "Oooooooo, behooves, get her - sing us a song, luv - DNA, DNA, DNA."

"Shut up in the cheap seats. As I was saying, it behooves me to ask you to raise a glass in that grand old Scottish toast of, "Here's tae us. Wha's like us? Gey few, and they're a' deid." To us!"

"To us!"

Everybody cheered and drank. Moira sat down. There was a lot of muttering along the lines of, "What did she say? Was that English? Moira must be a lot drunker than she looks."

"I am not drunk," said Moira to Emma, who was sitting on her right.

Emma smiled. "You sure about that, sugar?"

"OK, maybe I am a little drunk, but I figure I deserve it. It's been so long since l last cut loose, what with Kevin and our research and having to pay the bills and be a grown-up."

"I figure you deserve it too, Moira, some joy in your life."

Moira squinted at Emma. When Charles had taken up with Erik, their friends had come along for the ride. Moira and Erik had eventually come to feel a sort of grudging respect for each other. Moira wasn't sure she liked Erik - god, he could be spiky - but he made Charles happy and that was good enough for her. She hadn't quite known what to make of Emma. She hadn't expected to like her - Emma had something of a rep on campus - but the more she'd got to know her, the more she'd warmed to her. She was smart, wickedly funny, tough and loyal to the few she counted as friends.

Why thank you, honey.

Did you miss the bit about you being an intrusive bitch?

Laughter. We can't all be like St. Xavier when it comes to telepathy.

I think we both know he's very far from being a saint when it comes to telepathy or anything else for that matter.

True, sugar, true. A good person though, or, at least, trying to be a good person.

Yeah, well, most of us are trying to be good people, Emma, even you.

A slight ruffle in the cool breeze that was Emma's mental touch.

You sure you're not getting me mixed up with someone else?

You can't fool me Ms Frost, you're not the evil bitch queen you'd have us believe. I'm going to like you whether you like it or not, er, if you see what I mean. Hmmmm, perhaps I'm a bit more drunk than I thought.

Emma laughed out loud and said, "Moira, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

**Raven**

Raven gestured wildly as she explained her role in the upcoming "Let Your Freak Flag Fly" production. Everyone leaned in, listening intently, even Frost. Hank knew all about it already of course, but was still paying attention.

"It's a small role, but absolutely pivotal, and it's my mimicry of another character at the end of the first act which drives the second act narrative and informs the emotional arc of the protagonist. I'm not going to tell you any more because I don't want to spoil it for you. It's not anything as hackneyed as a conventional thriller, though it's pretty thrilling in my opinion, but I suppose you could call it an emotional thriller. The playwright hasn't shied away from the political implications of the work either and, if anything, we've emphasised those. God, I'm making it sound really dry and boring, like some socio-economic treatise, and it's really not. The writing is great, he's really captured the voices of ordinary people, mutant and human, but in a heightened form, and the way the director has incorporated our mutations into the script has made it even better. I'm going to stop now, I swear, it's just I'm so excited."

"I'm pretty excited too," said Hank, "In fact, I think I'll have worn myself out by the opening night, looking forward to it and worrying and trying to be supportive, but not smothering, and persuading everyone I know to come and see it and, oh, wow, you'd think I was starring in the play, not Raven."

They all laughed.

Raven gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Like I said, I'm not the star, Hank."

"You are as far as I'm concerned."

Raven kissed him again, making him blush. Everyone awww'd, except Erik, who looked faintly disgusted. Hypocrite, she'd seen him acting like a crushing schoolgirl when confronted by Charles' puppy eyes. A terrifying schoolgirl who could rip the iron from your blood and impale you with your own cell phone.

"I'm really looking forward to it," said Charles.

"You're sure you can make it? It doesn't conflict with that conference thing?"

"Even if it does, I'll be there."

In the aftermath of what Raven privately thought of as The Dinner Party Where Charles Almost Lobotomised His Boyfriend, her brother had been trying very hard to make up for what he'd said and done.

"You don't have to make the first night, you can come later on in the run."

"I want to be there," he said, smiling yet serious.

"Good. No doing anything embarrassing though."

He put on his wide-eyed and innocent face. "Raven, as if I would do anything to embarrass you."

"Yeah, right, I still remember graduation."

"I will always maintain that male strippers are the perfect accompaniment to any occasion."

Everyone laughed, except Erik, who looked a bit jealous.

Frost started an anecdote about a gay strip club where the dancers had been so lacklustre her brother had got up on stage to show them how it was done.

Charles leant against her shoulder and said quietly, "A bunch of roses wouldn't be too embarrassing would it?"

She gave him an affectionate nudge. "Only half a dozen and they've got to be - "

"Yellow, yes, I know."

She felt a gentle pressure at the base of her skull.

Come on in.

Then Charles was in her head and they were remembering Sharon's rose beds and the yellow rose bush that had somehow ended up in the red only bed. It had been a blisteringly hot day and the scent of the roses had been almost overpowering. 

They'd been skulking in the arbour and had overheard the gardener say, "It came with the order of red roses, ma'am, the nursery must have made a mistake, or maybe it's a mutation, that happens sometimes."

The rose had a mutation, just like them! They listened to Sharon ordering the gardener to dig it up and dispose of it. They sneaked after him and rescued it from the compost heap. They found a sunny spot in one of the more secluded parts of the estate, dug a hole with a trowel, which took ages and made their fingers ache, planted the yellow rose and gave it plenty of water, carrying a full watering can for what seemed like miles and getting themselves horrendously muddy in the process.

Raven could smell the cut grass and the wet earth. She could feel the cool mud between her fingers and the cold water on her legs. Charles had got sunburnt and gone as red as she was blue. They'd been sent to bed without any dinner for being so late and getting so dirty.

They had looked after the rose all that summer and it had flowered spectacularly. By the following spring, Kurt and Cain were in situ and Raven and Charles had other things to worry about.

It's still there you know, our rose bush. Last time I was at the house, I went for a wander and I came across it quite by accident. It's taller than me and terribly leggy and woody and the flowers are all right at the top, but the roses are just as gloriously yellow as ever and, oh, Raven, the scent . . .

They looked at each other. They weren't there yet, but they were getting there.

"So, six yellow roses, Xavier?"

"Six yellow roses it is, Darkholme."

**Charles**

Charles laughed at Emma's stripper story along with everyone else. His mind was elsewhere though, still with Raven and thoughts of the past and hopes for the future. He was gradually regaining some lost ground. It was slow going but well worth it. He still didn't think she and Hank would last; he'd already noticed her growing impatience with Hank's hesitancy and his discomfort with her impulsiveness. Hank was as ashamed of his mutation (prehensile feet) as Raven was proud of hers. He hadn't said anything though, they'd sort it out themselves. He'd also kept his mouth shut about Raven's move from MAD to the theatre troupe. If it all went tits up, she would cope.

He was applying his new found reticence to his relationship with Erik too. When they'd been discussing living together, Erik had insisted he would pay rent and half the bills. Charles' instinct had been to say this wasn't necessary, he owned the building for heaven's sake. Then he'd looked at it from Erik's point of view - a proud, independent man, from a modest background, determined not to live off his rich boyfriend - and agreed straight away.

Charles burned with shame every time he remembered that dinner party. The things he had said to Raven. What he had done to Erik. He'd been drunk, yes, but that was no excuse. He'd rejected his mother's attitudes and behaviour years ago, yet he'd essentially been channeling her. He didn't deserve their forgiveness, but he was determined to earn it.

Penny for them?

They're not worth a penny, Emma.

Not interested in strippers?

Oh, I'm very interested in strippers, but Erik might object.

He certainly would. That boy has got it bad for you.

I've got it bad for him. Is this where you threaten me with dire consequences if I break his heart?

He can take care of himself, sugar. Back to more important matters, us ladies are thinking of having a girls' night out. Want to come?

This has obviously escaped your notice, Ems, but I'm not a girl, lady or woman.

You can be an honorary female for the night. You'd look great in drag. I'd invite Hank but he'd have a coronary and Erik is so not a pretty girl.

You've seen Erik in drag?

Emma shared a memory of Erik in knee-length black boots, fishnets, a sparkling blue dress and a red wig. She was quite right, he wasn't pretty, but, fucking hell, Charles would tap that in a heartbeat

Emma stared at him. "Seriously, in that wig?"

"I'd fancy Erik even if he was wearing one of those ginger, tam o' shanter, comedy Scotsman wigs."

He sent Emma an image of Erik in a kilt and novelty wig and nothing else.

Emma snorted with laughter. "Lose the wig and he'd look pretty damn good in that pleated skirt."

"For fucks sake, Emma, it's a kilt, you heathen."

"What's all this about wigs and kilts?" asked Erik.

They shared a sly glance.

"Charles has been made an honorary girlie so he can join us ladies for a night of cocktails, disco and glamour. He'll have to drag up though. Sure you don't want to come Erik?"

"You got me into drag once, Ems, never again."

Raven shrieked with joy. "Charles looks great in drag. You should see him in full makeup. His nose is too big of course but his eyes and lips are perfect. You've got to shave this time, Charles, it just doesn't work with the beard."

"What about Conchita Wurst, that drag queen who won Eurovision?"

"No Charles, just no."

The three women started making plans, Hank listening in growing alarm. Erik got up out of his chair and arranged himself on Charles' lap. Charles put his hands on that narrow, narrow waist. Erik was broadcasting slight intoxication, relaxed affection and a hint of arousal.

"So, what do you look like in drag?"

Charles sent him an image. Erik's arousal ratcheted up several notches.

Perfection, Charles, sheer perfection.

Call me Charlotte, darling.

**Erik**

Erik bent to kiss him, twining his fingers into Charles' hair and feeling Charles' hands tighten on his waist. The short beard was a relatively new development and Erik hadn't yet decided how he felt about it. He liked the colour, ginger, but he wasn't sure he enjoyed the feel of it, particularly on more intimate parts.

That's a bit ambitious for a restaurant, darling.

You're forgetting the Orchid House. Now shut up and kiss me back.

Charles obliged with enthusiasm, tongue and a fair amount of spit.

"Ew, gross, that's my brother, I don't need to see that."

"Speak for yourself, sugar, I'm enjoying the show."

"Better break it up boys, the managers coming over," said Moira.

Erik sat up. The manager started insisting that he get off Charles' lap "for health and safety reasons."

"It's not a problem, I can levitate us out of here if I need to," said Erik and proceeded to lift the wheelchair a couple of feet in the air to demonstrate.

"Stop that at once. It's not safe and you're scaring the other customers."

It was late and the only other customers in the restaurant were a rumbustious family who had been making even more noise than their table. The father was taking photos of The Amazing Floating Wheelchair, the mother was waving and yelling something about her cousin Maria in Podunk who could bend spoons, the son was clapping and shouting "do another trick, do another" and the daughter was whining that she wanted "a floaty ride".

"Yeah, they look terrified," said Erik in his best sarcastic voice.

The manager looked like he was going to argue some more, but he gave up when he spotted Raven mimicking Spider-Man for the ecstatic children and Emma showing off her diamond form to their admiring parents.

"Are you going to put us down at some point?" said Charles, looking decidedly amused.

Erik lowered them gently to the ground. He climbed off the chair and perched on the edge of the table, facing Charles. God, he was so beautiful and brilliant and funny and filthy in bed and stubborn and annoying and Erik couldn't believe he was actually going to move in with him.

I'm getting all this you know. Are stubborn and annoying good points?

Erik reached out to stroke Charles' bearded cheek.

They're your best points, apart from your ability to suppress your gag reflex.

He leaned forward and kissed him again, ignoring Raven's shouts of "My eyes, my eyes!"

The first time Edie had met Charles she'd said, "You're going to marry that boy, Erik." He was pretty sure she was right. He drew back to look at Charles, who was red-faced, disheveled and grinning like an idiot.

"Is that a formal proposal?"

Fucking telepaths. "No, it's not. You have to wait for me to ask you, not go dragging it out of my head."

"I might decide to ask you."

"No, no, that's not how it works. I want to be the one doing the asking."

Charles' expression turned serious. "What if I say no?"

For a heart-stopping instant Erik thought he meant it, then the asshole started laughing.

"You fucking shit," he snarled, smacking Charles on the shoulder. "Right, that's it, I'm never proposing to you, not even if we're together until we're a hundred."

"But, Erik, we can't disappoint Edie."

Erik gave a long suffering sigh. "Fine, but it's only to please my mama and I won't be proposing anytime soon. We haven't even moved in together yet. It doesn't do to rush into these things. Besides, your disgusting habits might be too much for me."

Charles was outraged. "I don't have any disgusting habits."

This sparked shouts of protest from Raven and Moira.

"When you were working on your dissertation you wore the same underwear for two weeks straight," said Raven.

"What about the time they had to fumigate the lab because you left half eaten Chinese take-out in a storage cabinet and forgot all about it?" added Moira.

Hank nodded in agreement. "You know your "World's Greatest Professor" mug? I've replaced it six times, without you noticing, because you let it get so mouldy."

"Et tu, Hank?" said Charles, aiming for tragedy but achieving bathos.

After a lot more banter along the same lines, things calmed down a bit and they ordered coffee. The staff looked like they couldn't wait for them to leave. Well, that was another restaurant they wouldn't be coming back to.

Charles' voice was warm velvet in Erik's head.

And we didn't even get to try out their accessible bathroom . . .

**Emma**

Emma didn't find heterosexual men or lesbians much of a challenge. It was too easy to get them into bed. Straight women and gay men required so much more effort, making their eventual capitulation that much more satisfying. Moira was very lovely, lightly tanned skin, athletic body, dark hair, dark eyes and rosebud lips. Emma had given up on her manicurist, Candy. That was never going to happen. Moira could be her next project and if it didn't work out, well, Moira would make a damn fine friend.

She glanced across the table at Erik and Charles, entwined with each other physically and mentally. Their relationship was getting so serious that Erik had been talking of telling Charles about Shaw. All mutants knew of the Shaw Program of course, hell, most humans knew. Supposedly set up to help young people control their powers, low-powered children had been given electro-shock and aversion therapy to shut down their mutations, while high-powered mutants had become part of Shaw's inner circle and been targeted for radicalisation.

Emma would never forget the "training", her fear and pain warring with her desire to please Shaw. He'd liked to pit his acolytes against each other, watching as Emma forced her way into Erik's mind or Erik tried to smash her diamond form. They'd been eager followers at first, Emma disgusted and frightened by the way her parents had treated her brother just for being gay, Erik raw from the loss of his father and fighting a world that seemed to hate him. Then Shaw had started preaching the sacrifice of "their" humans and the first doubts had crept in. They'd got out in the end, two angry, terrified teenagers, forced into confronting their torturer and -

No, she wouldn't think of that now, not here with her mutant sister and brothers and her human friend. Not with Erik and Charles indulging in excessive PDA and Raven drunkenly trying to persuade Hank to hang from the light fittings with his feet and Mora entirely unimpressed by the lot of them, powers and all.

You're very thoughtful, Emma.

Just taking stock, Charles. You really love Erik don't you?

So much it frightens me.

Do you think you could forgive him, ah, a questionable past?

I think everyone deserves a second chance and I'd forgive Erik almost anything.

Then I guess you'll be alright.

Glad to hear it. Now, we'd better get out of here before we get thrown out.

I'm with you, sugar.

Sorting out the check and getting their coats seemed to take an inordinately long time. Everyone was milling about near the exit when the sound of rain battering against the windows distracted them. They all turned to watch the autumnal gale fling raindrops against the glass and tear fiery red leaves from the maples. Charles and Erik looked into each other's eyes. Emma could hear the words as clearly as if they'd been spoken aloud.

She smiled and said, "Rain, rain go away; come again another day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first fic. Thank you to all the commenters, kudoers and silent readers. I've started commenting a lot more on the fics I like ever since I realised how encouraging it is! Hope you enjoy my next one, which will be very different from this. Au revoir!


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